The End of the World
Would the world end, I wonder, if I spoke of it?
Yes. Yes, it would.
They look at me with such hope in their eyes, in their minds. They believe in my Dream, and in me. Their faith has carried them through horrors that would have broken lesser men and women. But they live, unbroken, because they believe. In me. In my Dream.
I cannot tell them that I'm beginning to question.
It's nothing. Just a bout of exhaustion, that's all. I'm not really beginning to question.
I survived the loss of my legs-- twice-- didn't I? I survived brainwashing, and torture, and the death of students, and separation from my love. Absolutely ridiculous to think I might be getting discouraged.
But I touch the minds of the world, and they give me no joy.
I see hate and poisonous rage, and my heart shrugs with weary cynicism. What else did I expect?
I see love and open joy, and my heart breaks for the naivete of those still able to feel such things. How do they expect to survive?
The darkness seems to grow every day.
Would the world end, I wonder, if I reached out for help? I have done my best to help my students. What would happen if I turned to them?
Why, then they would know I am weak. And I can't be weak. Their lives are so dangerous, they need me to be here for them. To be strong. They need to know I will always be here, always be calm and rational, always able to help them, always able to work toward the cause.
If they were to know I am starting to question--
--starting to wonder how many must die, so many years of toiling and putting our lives our sweat our blood our time on the line to save the world, and the world cares less and less every year, hates us more and more, and it's beginning to look as if we have only made matters worse, things have only progressed from bad to worse with all we have done--
--if they were to know I feel this way, why, then they would question. And they would suffer, as I suffer now, wondering what the point to all the lost blood, lost time, lost lives was.
I'm not really questioning. It's just that I'm tired.
All I need is to get some more sleep.
I'm a psychologist. I'd know it if I were depressed. I'd get help.
But I don't need any help, because I'm not depressed. I'm just a little bit tired.
Would the world end, I wonder, if I turned to my X-Men for comfort?
And yes. Their world would. Charles Xavier would no longer be the pillar they can always depend on. It would destroy them.
I can't do that. They're my students-- my children, and I love them.
And I'm just a little bit tired, that's all.
I don't need any help.