I could/can

 

I don't even remember exactly when I realized I could destroy the world. It was probably in childhood, when time has no meaning and everything is still so new and fascinating to us that it's hard to grasp, and even harder to organize. In any case, one day this strange and disturbing awareness simply appeared in my mind. It's not for me to figure out where it came from—after all, so many strange and incomprehensible things happen in the human mind, for which there is no explanation, and no source to be traced, so it's simply not worth bothering with. So I didn't try. I didn't ask my parents. Like any child, I used to pester my father and mother with questions about trivial things, like why strawberries are red, and quite complex things, like the nature of day and night—but I never raised that one issue. It seemed disturbing to me—even when I knew little about the world—so I kept quiet. Like a child ashamed to admit to something they'd done. Even though I hadn't done anything.

I had terrifying potential that I didn't intend to use. I was afraid. I knew something powerful resided within me, something beyond my comprehension. It fascinated, of course, but it carried with it enormous consequences that I didn't want to impose on the world and that I wasn't prepared for myself, anyway. The sting with which a bee attacks also kills the bee. It wields a weapon that everyone who has ever felt it rightly fears, but when it unleashes it, it's not to save itself, for along with the venom, it pulls all the entrails from the bee's abdomen, thereby definitively killing it. Likewise, the end of the world on my part would be a manifestation of malice—because I don't have to do it at all; masochism—because the end of the world is the end of the world, and me with it; and stupidity—a combination of the two.

Somehow, I was proud that—in some twisted way—I knew more, could do more. Yes, I could destroy the world. And I was careful with the names. I could bring about the end of the world—but that didn't mean I was ending it. No. I wasn't ending it, because I hadn't started it. Finishing something means putting the finishing touches on it and saying, "yes, it's done." And all I could do was smash it to smithereens. On the one hand, a rather unusual talent, but on the other, nothing worth flaunting, like exceptional musicality. Talent itself is also a lower-class skill—unless it's true genius—because true craftsmanship, which requires knowledge and a tremendous amount of effort, is far more valuable. Hard work of both hands. Backbreaking effort of muscles, bones, and joints, sweat, and sometimes even blood. And I could blow the world to pieces—just like that! I didn't need to roll up my sleeve, spit into my hands, take a few deep breaths, make arcane hand signs, or shout, "Abracadabra, trill morel!" No. I only had to want it—want the end of the world to come.

I didn't know, for obvious reasons, what such an end would look like, but judging by the reflexive shiver that ran through me at the very thought, and the sudden tenseness of every muscle—as if, for a split second, an electric current had coursed through me—I guessed this apocalypse would be as complex as it was brutal. And that was essentially where my talent ended, because if I did wish for this end, there was absolutely nothing I could do to stop or slow it down. I could unleash an unimaginable chain of destruction—but I would be utterly powerless to control it. It was something completely vegetative—like diarrhea. I could suppress it within myself as much as I wanted - but the moment I told myself: enough, when the potential suppressed for years would unwind, the furious, enraged force, embittered by centuries of inactive waiting, would rage and destroy until it destroyed everything it could, or dissipated in the vapors of entropy.

I felt this power always and everywhere. I felt it. Sometimes in my hands, sometimes in my head, sometimes beneath my heart, in my lower abdomen—as if I were pregnant with it—and sometimes with my entire being. It was a shiver on every inch of my skin, an electrostatic charge on the tips of my hair. A soreness in my muscles. A drug, an alcohol flowing through my veins, giving me a high I couldn't succumb to—because that would be the end of everything. Literally. That's why I couldn't afford to be reckless for a moment. I had to be in constant control, to keep something in check that I couldn't control if I let go. I had power over unimaginable chaos. Such a strange gift—and sometimes a duty, even a curse. Because I couldn't, like everyone else, go wild, get drunk, or smoke a joint. The smoke itself could have confused my thoughts, and I can only speculate what would have happened then. It wouldn't have been so bad if I'd simply burst into a fit of wild laughter. Because I could just as easily destroy the world while high - just for fun!

So I had to be careful. Very careful. And there's a time in a person's life when it comes with great difficulty. Everyone, somewhere between ten and thirteen, experiences an overwhelming need to know, stubbornly pushing in one direction—where it shouldn't. It's then—somewhere between adolescence and adulthood, which arrives on time, and sometimes a few years late—that kids go wild, experimenting with anything and everything, testing their limits, pushing past them with a smile. Kids do stupid things. Kids do kids. Sometimes kids die—and for them, it's no lesson for the future, for others, only sometimes. No one grabs anyone's hand—if they do, it's more likely to pat them on the shoulder and encourage them to do the stupidest thing. And the rest will applaud, or in a fit of emotion, simply join in. When you're a teenager, consequences are just a vague concept, a four-syllable word, and nothing is impossible. And I carried within me the potential to commit unimaginable stupidity. That's why I had to keep to myself and live out my teenage life like an adult. Like an ascetic and a hermit. Of course, they laughed at me for not even wanting to try a beer, calling me a wimp. And I let them and just smiled weakly—because I knew something they didn't. Of course, I couldn't betray myself with a single word. I had friends I wanted to impress, I had friends whose attention I depended on. I think if I'd casually blurted out, "Hey, you know I could destroy the world, just like that?"—I'd have been the most popular kid on the block. Everyone would have looked at me with admiration. And they'd have followed me around, pestering me: show me, show me! And one day, tired of this popularity, I'd probably show them. They probably expected me to create a spectacular 'double'—a mega-firecracker, one worth a few hundred złoty—balanced, of course, to do nothing to them, except for the spectacular flash and bang they were expecting. The problem, however, was that I couldn't balance it. The end of the world I could bring about was, in its essence, very... definitive. This thing I carried within me—whether it was a gift or a curse—could, and in fact, would, bring about the end of the world. Whatever was to cause the catastrophe—fire, wave, wind, or earthquake—was beyond my control. So I couldn't try it out to see. I couldn't stage a pre-premiere performance—a mini-apocalypse, limited to, say, a few dozen meters. A small demonstration for friends and family. No. I could destroy everything and everyone—without exception and without mercy. And I didn't want that.

It was hard for me to live with this secret. Sometimes I wanted to spill it all out, confide in someone—share this burden weighing on me, to feel lighter myself. But I stubbornly held my tongue. Even to my wife, who thought we had no secrets from each other—because, in fact, I told her everything without exception and without shame—I kept quiet about this one thing. Sometimes, when we made love, she'd ask why I was trembling so much, constantly trembling—barely noticeable, yet palpable under the sensitive, watchful touch of her fingers, which knew me better than I knew myself. And I looked into her eyes, and tears almost welled up at the thought that what was inside me—had been inside me for as long as I could remember—could harm the very being I loved most in the world.

***

The world ended one July afternoon. At least for me, it was in ruins—and after all, what truly matters is the subjective experience, dictated to us by no one, and one's own perspective. It wasn't a spectacular apocalypse. No spectacular catastrophe. Just a bang, a thud, the grinding of bent metal, and somewhere amidst all the noise, the quiet crack of breaking bones and the dripping of blood: drip, drip, drip...

It was difficult to judge whose fault it was. Witness statements contradicted each other, and the police were lost in it all. A closer look suggested that both parties were at fault. The accident at the intersection had been consensual, as it were, because if even one hadn't been working towards it as hard as the other, it would never have happened. One of those parties was the one I loved most in the world. Our child was also in the car. My son. I wasn't with them—a regret I felt, as much as I loved her and him. I longed to turn back time and be with them there, then, in that car. Perhaps save them, yank the steering wheel from her hands, or knock her foot off the gas pedal. Or maybe just die with them. That would have been good too. It might not have been the best option, but anything seemed better—even death—than a life without them.

My first instinct was to destroy the world—just because I could. To smash it all to dust. To take revenge on God, who created this world in this form. To mock him, as he had mocked me, and destroy his greatest creation. And surely, if not for years of practicing self-control, the world would have shattered into a trillion pieces the moment I thought of it. But having lived for almost thirty years with a kind of hydrogen bomb permanently attached to my soul like adhesive tape, I had learned caution. What I could do—willy-nilly—never left my thoughts. My consciousness constantly brushed against the soft shell of this bomb, and it never breached it. Because I had never thought of destroying the world. I had thought of thinking about thinking about unleashing the apocalypse. That's why, for the several decades I spent in this world, the world was safe; safe in its ignorance. Safe, because its fate lay in the hands of someone who preferred being here to not being there.

And though I suffered—I suffered as if I were in that car, as if the bending sheet metal were slicing me and the cracked glass had carved itself deep into my flesh—nothing penetrated deep enough to unleash within me the desire for an end. No thought reached those darkest regions where dormant—yet ever-alert—potential lay dormant. The world—this flawed, sick world where everything perishes—destroyed me, and yet I couldn't destroy it. I couldn't. I didn't want to do anything in anger. For so many years I had persevered, and now it would be foolish to sell myself to the moment. Carrying an inhumanly heavy responsibility from a young age, I learned to consider my decisions and weigh my words. In the end, much depended on them—in everyday life and in general

.

I don't really know how I found myself at the end of the world. How, why, and why here. There were so many nicer places than Antarctica, and I myself have never been a fan of winter. If I were thinking logically, I would probably have ended up and settled in Amsterdam. If I were thinking logically—and more importantly, practically—I probably would have. But finding myself at the Pole was dictated by something entirely different—emotions. A boiling pot of feelings. A boiling ocean of unfulfilled passions and despair. Perhaps I came here to cool down? To let the terrible physical cold quench the bitterness metaphorically consuming my soul—which itself is perhaps just a metaphor. Or perhaps simply to die. Perhaps I lacked the courage or strength to tie a noose to a rope and hang myself through a pipe from the ceiling, and instead—paradoxically—I braved a mad journey to the end of the world, letting the insane frost do the work for me. Perhaps I was searching for something, or perhaps I was just escaping. I don't know. Just as I don't know—or rather, I don't remember—how I got here. Logic dictated that I'd come here by ship with a handful of other madmen, or rather, ordinary scientists—though they were probably a little crazy too, to come to such a place. But I don't recall a ship. Maybe I simply don't remember. Or maybe I'd come here on an ice floe, or floated down on a cloud.

I walked through the blizzard, propelled by what seemed like only momentum, which propelled me onward, onward, to nowhere at all, to the end of the world. I trudged through the snow like a wind-up toy, on stiff legs I could no longer feel at all. I couldn't move a toe in my shoe. I probably wouldn't have reached my nose. Or maybe, even if I'd managed to touch the tip of my nose with my fingertip, both would have broken and fallen away like icicles. It was pleasant not to feel anything.

I was wearing a thick, warm jacket, trimmed with fur—a bare minimum of sanity in this white madness I'd embarked on, for some reason I'd embarked on. Snow clung to my mustache and beard, and I paid absolutely no attention to it. I just wiped my goggles from time to time, as if there was any point.

Raging whiteness surrounded me, so furiously white it was almost blue.

I stopped. The blizzard seemed to have eased, and if it weren't for my goggles—steamed inside, frosted outside—I probably would have seen something.

I lifted them and, squinting, looked around. I stood at the end of the world, in the middle of a white wasteland, under the darkening Antarctic sky. Below me, only snow. Icebergs towered around me—kilometer-thick blocks of ice, millions of years old, against which I—a small man, less than two meters tall, who had lived in this strange, evil world for less than thirty years—meant nothing.

I smiled to myself. I thought how beautiful it was here—in this cold, utterly lifeless place. I thought I wanted to be an inseparable part of it, and for it to be a part of me.

I thought I wanted the world to end—right then and there.

I sighed with relief as it began to happen. An unimaginable weight lifted from me. I was light, unimaginably light. For the first time in my life, I could scream at the top of my lungs. I held no secrets.

I screamed—with delight, not terror—as the ice blocks began to crumble and collapse. I saw clouds of icy dust rising around me, rushing toward me from all sides like a stampede of white horses. I screamed with all my might—because I could and because I wanted to—as the ground shook beneath me more and more violently, until finally I lost my balance and fell.

The avalanche swept me away as if I weighed nothing at all. Like a feather. A feather that made a giant sneeze.

I laughed at the thought.