Alexander von der Neymark

Philosopher, Editor at Independent research on moral architecture of language models

[Alexander von der Neymark @neymark]

"Uncensored" is not one thing.

Four distinct operations produce the same output. Only one edits weights. Only one travels with the file. Only one survives fine-tuning.

The ontology no one wrote until now:

https://t.co/p9U5k2yUi3

#LocalLLM #Abliteration

[Alexander von der Neymark @neymark]

My Moldovan longing, scattered. Scattered forever. Recorded on tape. Shattered along with the glasses in some abandoned Andy’s. Written in a strange Romanian, with forgotten Cyrillic, in a distant slang. Spilled like paint across the walls. Burned with your skin by the shores of artificial ponds. Lost along with your hairdryer, with cigarettes soaked by rain, with a bouquet forgotten in an alley, with a scooter left behind, with a pistol that never fired. Broken into pieces, enchanted by the sea, undelivered, disappointed yet spellbound. The one that helped me flee across the border, love these fields, leave everything behind, forget. The one that did for me what you never could, and never wanted to. The one that read all the books, magazines, newspapers, verdicts for me. The one that disconnected me from the internet. The one that touched in me what you never could and never dared to touch. Rejected, turned away, drowned in this spring. And I am rushing — not to love, but to let go. To give you back these fields and all that you always wanted to take from me. I forgive — both you and this night without you. And I let go, I send you into this Moldovan longing, scattered. Scattered forever. Recorded on tape. Adorned, but never covering — only stealing away our weightlessness, our chaos, our impossibility. Our incompatibility. Our “I can’t live without you” and “I don’t want anything anymore.” And I want, and now I rely only on myself, if I cannot live without you, if I cannot live for you. Me. You. Our Moldovan longing, scattered.

#Moldovan

[Alexander von der Neymark @neymark]

save a prayer (https://t.co/BZf4BAV5bF)

Tânjirea mea moldovenească, risipită. Risipită pentru totdeauna. Înregistrată pe o casetă. Spartă odată cu paharele într-un Andy’s abandonat. Scrisă într-o română stranie, cu chirilice uitate, într-un argou distant. Vărsată cu vopsea pe pereți. Arsă împreună cu pielea ta pe malul lacurilor artificiale. Risipită împreună cu uscătorul tău de păr, cu țigările ude de ploaie, cu buchetul uitat într-o străduță, cu trotineta abandonată, cu pistolul care n-a tras niciodată. Răsfirată în bucăți, fermecată de mare, nedusă la capăt, dezamăgit fermecată. Care m-a ajutat să fug peste graniță, să iubesc câmpurile acestea, să las totul în urmă, să uit. Care a făcut pentru mine ceea ce tu n-ai putut și n-ai vrut niciodată să faci. Care a citit pentru mine toate cărțile, revistele, ziarele, sentințele. Care m-a deconectat de la internet. Care a atins în mine ceea ce tu n-ai putut și n-ai vrut să atingi. Respinsă, întoarsă cu spatele, înecată în această primăvară. Și mă grăbesc! Nu — să iubesc, ci să las. Să-ți dau înapoi aceste câmpuri și tot ce ai vrut întotdeauna să-mi iei. Iert! Și pe tine, și această noapte fără tine. Și las, și te trimit în această tânjire moldovenească, risipită. Risipită pentru totdeauna. Înregistrată pe o casetă. Împodobită, dar care nu a acoperit — ci a furat ușurătatea noastră, lipsa noastră de sistem, imposibilitatea noastră. Incompatibilitatea noastră. “Nu pot fără tine” și “nu mai vreau nimic”. Și vreau, și mă bazez acum doar pe mine, dacă nu pot trăi fără tine, să trăiesc pentru tine. Eu. Tu. Tânjirea noastră moldovenească, risipită.

#moldovenească

[Alexander von der Neymark @neymark]

My imperfect night. And you. And the deepest “cold” I’ve known this spring. And I want you to know how deeply I miss you in this city without you. By day, they still manage somehow — they live, they function, they try, they take loans and repay debts, they drink their coffee and drown in chestnut trees. But when night falls, they vanish from the streets, and the city becomes entirely ours — but I walk through our city all alone. And all the shop windows, the billboards, the lightboxes, the displays — the ones where your face once looked back at me — suddenly went dark. No signal. They’re advertising emptiness. Bookstores are closed forever. Every building marked with “vânzare.” And dog barks from the dark. And fog. And in the alleyways — sorrow. Was there ever, tell me, a spring in which I could — like all of them — keep going, live and act, try, visit banks and pay bills, sip my coffee in the alleyways of sorrow, see your face in every window, on every billboard, in every strange world, stop for green eyes, drown in oceans of chestnut hair? No — we’ve never had that. And tell me, when, and why, and what are you working on now? What projects are pulling you away from me? What’s your P&L — yours and theirs? Maybe they’re a thousand times more efficient than I am, if you can trade our spring, our longing, for them. But were you ever truly in our city? You were never here. My Chișinău isn’t for you. It isn’t about you. And that’s why the windows, the billboards, the lightboxes, the screens — they don’t recognize your face. They don’t want to broadcast someone who, perhaps, doesn’t even exist. If you live only in my mind — who would agree to advertise you? Even for money, they told me “no.” Even for money, you can’t buy deliverance from this sadness. You can’t drown it. You can’t silence it — not with other people, not with other worlds. And in the worlds we shared — the windows, the billboards, the lightboxes, the screens — they’re all broken. And the words “No signal” appear in the middle of the void.

#Chisinau

[Alexander von der Neymark @neymark]

kupata (https://t.co/jlURf6El2K)

Noaptea mea, imperfectă. Și tu. Și cel mai profund „frig” pe care l-am întâlnit în primăvara asta. Și vreau să știi cât de mult îmi este dor de tine în acest oraș fără tine. Ziua, oamenii încă se țin cumva — trăiesc, acționează, încearcă, iau credite și își plătesc datoriile, își beau cafeaua și se îneacă în castani. Dar când vine noaptea, dispar de pe străzi, orașul devine complet al nostru, dar eu merg prin orașul nostru — singur. Și toate vitrinele, panourile, casetele luminoase și ecranele, de pe care chipul tău mă privea — s-au stins brusc. No signal. Ele publică golul. Librăriile s-au închis pentru totdeauna. Pe fiecare clădire scrie „vânzare”. Și lătrat de câini din întuneric. Și ceață. Și melancolie în ganguri. A existat vreodată, spune-mi, o astfel de primăvară în care să nu pot — așa cum pot ei — să rezist, să trăiesc și să acționez, să încerc, să merg la bănci și să plătesc facturi, să-mi beau cafeaua în ganguri de melancolie, să-ți văd chipul în toate vitrinele, pe toate panourile, în toate lumile cele mai ciudate, să mă opresc pentru ochii tăi verzi, să mă înec în oceanele părului tău castaniu? Nu, n-a existat niciodată pentru noi. Și tu, spune-mi, când, și de ce, și la ce lucrezi acum? Ce proiecte te distrag de la mine? Care e P&L-ul tău și al lor? Poate sunt de o mie de ori mai eficienți decât mine, dacă poți schimba pe ei primăvara noastră, tristețea noastră. Dar ai fost vreodată în orașul nostru? Tu n-ai fost niciodată aici. Chișinăul meu nu e pentru tine și nu e despre tine. Și tocmai de aceea vitrinele, panourile, casetele luminoase, ecranele — nu-ți cunosc chipul. Și nici nu vor să transmită pe cineva care, de fapt, nu există. Dacă ești doar în mintea mea, cine ar accepta să te reclame? Chiar și cu bani, mi-au spus „nu”. Chiar și cu bani, nu pot cumpăra salvarea de această tristețe. N-o pot îneca. N-o pot acoperi — nici cu alți oameni, nici cu alte lumi. Iar în lumile noastre — vitrinele, panourile, casetele luminoase, ecranele sunt stricate. Și apare inscripția: „No signal” în mijlocul golului.

#Chisinau

[Alexander von der Neymark @neymark]

Jeg elsker deg. Tauleidere, gale skip av minner. Innpakket i sollys, kalde, korsettlignende, åpent tusjfargede bilder. En slik natt! Ensom, minus sju, forlatt ved innsjøen Kilpisjärvi. En natt som bortfører kvinnelig kjærlighet. Der “hvordan kunne du bli født sånn” ikke lenger fungerer. Og, uten å tro mine egne øyne – lenger og lenger mot nordøst, en kuppelformet, betongstøpt, kunstig øy i giftig gult. Et sted man bare går, og går, og går. Min latterlige samling av avslørte metaforer: “et rovdyr uten klør”, “et monster som forelsket seg i sitt offer”, “en gang en røver, en hedning, en egoist” – alle er for lengst og for alltid utdatert. Bare du og jeg er igjen i mitt kalde Skandinavia. Og det usagte mellom oss. Men selv det er bare begynnelsen på en vei mot intet. Du er stille, og vinden i fjordene river hver lyd til et skrik. Du smiler, og jeg fornemmer stormen. Du går, og hele åkre med hvete brenner. Den som ga meg kjærligheten til deg, valgte mellom et virus og denne torturen. Og han valgte bevisst. Han befalte meg: “Vær.” Ikke bare avhengig – men medavhengig. Gjennomstunget av en skarp tanke. Dødelig rammet av latteren din, utslettet, avvæpnet. Avvist, for selv når du avviser – brenner du aldri broer. Født av tusen andre kvinner. Funnet av meg selv på jordens merkeligste sted. Elsket av deg… her slutter ordene. Jeg elsker deg.

[Alexander von der Neymark @neymark]

moya (https://t.co/BuFiZE3Ux8)

I love you. Rope-ladder ships of memory. Wrapped in sunlight, cold, bustier-like, openly marker-colored frames. Such a night! Lonely, at minus seven, abandoned by the lake in Kilpisjärvi. The kind of night that kidnaps a woman’s love. For which “how could you be born this way” no longer works. And, disbelieving my own eyes — farther and farther, northeast — a dome-shaped, concrete, artificial island, poisonous yellow. A place to walk to, and walk, and walk. My ridiculous collection of exposed metaphors: “a predator with claws torn out,” “a monster who fell for his prey,” “was once a bandit, a pagan, an egoist” — all of them so long, and so permanently, obsolete. Only you and I remain in my cold Scandinavia. And the unsaid between us. But even that is only the beginning of a road to nowhere. You are silent, and the wind in the fjords rips every sound into a scream. You smile, and I sense a storm. You leave, and whole fields of wheat catch fire. Whoever cursed me with love for you chose between a virus and this torment. And he made his decision knowingly. He ordered me: “Be.” Be not only dependent — but co-dependent. Be pierced by a sharp mind. Be killed by your laughter, annihilated, disarmed. Be rejected, because even when you reject — you never burn the bridge. Be born from a thousand other women. Be found by myself at the strangest edge of the earth. Be loved by you… this is where the words end. I love you.

[Alexander von der Neymark @neymark]

Jag älskar dig. Repstegsdrivna galna skepp av minnen. Inslagna i solsken, kalla, korsettlika, öppet tuschfärgade bilder. En sådan natt! Ensam, minus sju, övergiven vid Kilpisjärvi sjö. En natt som rövar bort kvinnlig kärlek. För vilken “hur kunde du födas så” inte längre fungerar. Och, utan att tro mina egna ögon – allt längre bort, mot nordost, en kupolformad, betonggjuten, konstgjord ö av giftigt gult. Dit man bara går, och går, och går. Min löjliga samling avslöjade metaforer: “ett rovdjur utan klor”, “ett monster som älskade sitt offer”, “en gång en rövare, en hedning, en egoist” – alla är sedan länge och för evigt föråldrade. Bara du och jag finns kvar i mitt kalla Skandinavien. Och det outsagda mellan oss. Men även det är bara början på en väg som leder ingenstans. Du är tyst, och vinden i fjordarna sliter varje ljud till ett skrik. Du ler, och jag anar stormen. Du går, och hela fält av vete brinner. Den som gav mig kärleken till dig valde mellan ett virus och denna tortyr. Och han valde medvetet. Han befallde mig: “Var.” Inte bara beroende – samberoende. Genomborrad av ett vasst intellekt. Dödad av ditt skratt, förintad, avväpnad. Avvisad, för även när du avvisar – bränner du aldrig broar. Född av tusen andra kvinnor. Upptäckt av mig själv på jordens märkligaste plats. Älskad av dig… här tar orden slut. Jag älskar dig.

[Alexander von der Neymark @neymark]

त्वं कृष्णम् अप्रियम् एव स्नेहरहितम् प्रियं अकर्त्वा।
स्पर्शं विना। भगवान् यथा नास्ति — तथा त्वं प्रेषयसि स्मरम्।
त्वं छिन्नानि चिह्नानि संयोजयसि पुनः, लिखसि वर्णान्
हस्तदग्धेन लेखेन। त्वं तुलसीपत्रम् इव श्वासं धारयसि।
स्मृतिं त्यजसि, स्मरणं नास्ति।
क्रोधेन दशितम् अधरं, वस्त्रके विष्णुना लिखितम्।
कटीषु तानि स्पर्शव्रणानि — दन्तः, अङ्गुलिः, अधरम्।
वंशी, प्रणष्टकाव्यम्, राधायाः कम्पम्, जानुनी संकुचितम्।
गन्धाः, भ्रमराः, निर्मितं रूपं या केवलं दृष्टिं स्खलयन्ति।
कः? कस्य? हे देव, कस्मै?
इयं न स्तुतिः। इयं स्मरणं ते गन्धवत्।
नाहं कृतम् किमपि। स्नेहः न ते, अपि तु श्वासस्य यः अवाशिष्टः।
नाहं जपामि, स्पर्शे मम नाम तव उच्चारयामि।
त्वं पश्यसि, यथा कम्पसि, त्वं प्रतीक्षसि।
यथा वस्त्राणि गोपिकाः गोपयन्ति — न स्वयम्।
न तथा। तथा लिखितम्। तथा स्वामी।
तव रहस्यता, तव लीला, तव गन्धः, तव मलः।
त्वं इच्छसि तुलसीपत्रं भवितुं मम त्वचि।
त्वं मम शरीरस्य देवता यः नाम नास्ति।
अनालोच्य — व्यक्तम्। आत्मा कम्पमयः।
सिद्धम् — अधिकं, गम्भीरम्, दानम्।
त्वं दत्तवती। तस्य अर्थे। अकल्पितं। अविशुद्धम्।
न स्नेहेन। तव वस्त्रके — विष्णुः।
त्वं कृष्णं स्नेहितवती।

[Alexander von der Neymark @neymark]

dudadu (https://t.co/OBIr2JvaWe)

You loved Krishna. But not gently. Not with touch. As if no god existed. Quietly. Too much. You rearranged the symbols, blurred the signs, cut through scripture, layered lines — wrists dipped in ink, the lamb defiant, the power blind. Petals left tangled in your hair, the uselessness of memory, the crocodile’s affair. Lips bitten from jealousy. T-shirts with prints — Vishnuism. Marks on your thighs — his magic imprints. Fingers, teeth. Flutes. Torn-down prose. Radha’s trembling hands. Knees that froze. Scents. Dragonflies. Enchanting the fiercest, the untouchable, unassigned, unnamed. By none. For whom? Oh god — for whom the flame? This is not a prayer. This is the memory of smelling like him, once. Of doing nothing — and loving not him, but the breath he left behind. You didn’t pray when you touched yourself. You whispered his name. And he watched you tremble. And waited. That’s how gopi hide their saris — not alone. So unlike. So foretold. So swami. His unknowability. His scent. His play. His dirt. His hunger to be tulsi on your skin, unnamed god of your ribs and breath within. Without knowing — undressed. Soul, raw and recessed. Ready for more. For less. For depth. To open. To fall. To give it all. And you did. For him. Carelessly. Cleanly. Not gently. The print reads Vishnu. You loved Krishna.

#khrishna

[Alexander von der Neymark @neymark]

Auf deinem Weg — immer Hindernisse. Verlassene Hoffnungen. Zersprungene Telefone. Du kannst nicht zeichnen, obwohl du es jahrelang gelernt hast, dich eingeschmeichelt hast bei all diesen Wichtigtuern — mit ihren Zigaretten, ihren Launen, ihren Freiluftkursen, ihren Ateliers. Und all diesen Katalogen — Bosch, Kandinsky, Dalí… Du glaubtest an Freundschaft mit ihnen, wolltest dich selbst — und mich — davon überzeugen, dass Zeichnungen irgendeinen Sinn ergeben. Dass du einen Grund hast, Meisterwerke zu schaffen. Ich studierte Kunst mit dir. Beherrschte Bachs Fugen und Liszts Etüden, bis meine Finger aus Eisen waren, bis sie aus dem Lack Klang holen konnten, den alle liebten. Nur ich nicht. Und manchmal glaube ich: Musik war mir wichtiger als dir. Denn du hast alles gemacht — Modeljobs, Business, Buddhismus — aber nicht gesungen. Warst Sängerin — und hast nicht gesungen. Für dich wurde Musik geschrieben. Du wurdest produziert. Geliebt. Man träumte, wie wir leben würden, wenn der Winter unsere nördliche Stadt endlich freigibt. Doch du hast es nie versucht. Und ich sehe nicht, ich spüre nicht — und werde wohl nie all deine Texturen und Oktaven. Und am Ende ist es einfach: Du kannst nicht singen. All diese Wünsche, diese Versuche — sie waren ein Traum. Wie unser Winter, der müde wurde, sich Frühling zu nennen. Es war alles ein Fake. Und meine leere Hoffnung. Bin ich enttäuscht von dir? Nein. Liebe ich dich mehr? Ja. Selbst wenn du eine Imitatorin bist — und träge? Ja.

[Alexander von der Neymark @neymark]

we are one (https://t.co/vwJmgu1HPE)

There are always obstacles in your path. Abandoned hopes. Broken phones. You never learned to draw, though you studied for years, smiled at those pompous fools — with their cigarettes, their shifting moods, their open-air sessions and cluttered studios. All those catalogues — Boschs, Kandinskys, Dalis… You believed in friendship with them, tried to convince yourself — and me — that drawings meant something. That you had a reason to create masterpieces. I studied art with you. Learned all those complicated fugues by Bach and Liszt’s relentless études. My fingers became iron — learned to pull sound from enamel and silence that others adored. But I didn’t. And sometimes I think music mattered more to me than it ever did to you. Because you were always doing something else — modeling, business, Buddhism — but never singing. You were a singer, and never sang. And they wrote music for you. Produced you. Admired you. Imagined how we’d live when winter would finally release our northern city from its icy clasp. But you never tried. And I can’t see, can’t feel — and likely never will — all your textures and octaves, still. And in truth, it’s simple: you don’t know how to sing. All those wishes, all attempts — just a dream. Like our winter, pretending to be spring. It was all a fake. My empty hope. Did I lose faith in you? No. Did I love you more? Yes. Even knowing you’re a mimic — and lazy? Yes.

[Alexander von der Neymark @neymark]

Τροία. Μια τρυφερότητα κάτω απ’ τον ουρανό, φτιαγμένη από μάρμαρο και χαμηλό φως, μες στα σοκάκια σου — μονάχα κενό. Φόβος λευκός σαν άγνωστος χιονιάς, κάθε σπίτι σου — σιγή, παγωνιά. Η νύχτα τρομάζει, το ξημέρωμα σπάει, κι αν δεν σ’ αγαπήσω — ποιος να σε θάψει με τέτοια ομορφιά, Τροία; Κι αν μείνω κοντά σου, αν πω το “ναι”, αν κλείσω τον νου και τον πόνο μου πνίξω, αν φύγω με του ανέμου τη ριπή — πάλι δεν ξέρω πώς να σε σώσω εκεί. Γιατί είναι αδύνατο. Το ξέρουν όλοι. Πως η πτώση σου γράφτηκε ήδη στη σκόνη. Πως με σένα — είναι ήττα. Χωρίς εσένα — ειρήνη. Κι όμως το ξέρουμε: δε μας ανήκει η μοίρα. Θα πεθάνουμε — χωρίς πόλη, χωρίς λατρεία. Εσύ — χωρίς πόλη. Εγώ — χωρίς λατρεία. Να σε κρύψω, να φύγω με σένα απ’ τη Σπάρτη, να ζήσω μαζί σου κάθε λεπτό — σημαίνει να θυσιάσω κάθε ελπίδα σ’ αυτήν την αγάπη. Είναι αναγκαίο. Και ανέφικτο. Όμορφο. Και απελπισμένο. Να γίνω μαζί σου μια σκιά, μια πνοή, ένα κορμί, να σε δεχτώ σαν ύστατο νησί. Κι αν μου ζητήσεις να επιλέξω — εσένα διαλέγω, Ελένη. Μισώ την πατρίδα μου, Τροία, την τέλεια, την ξένη. Και ξέρω, δεν θα με καταλάβουν. Θα με διώξουν, θα με προδώσουν. Ποιος θα δεχτεί να δώσεις μια χώρα για μια γυναίκα, Τροία; Κάθε σου γέφυρα, μοίρα, πλατεία, δρομάκι — μια πληγή, ένα κρύο φιλί, ένα μαράζι. Κι εγώ — προδότης, σκιά, καταραμένος, ένας εξόριστος της αρχαίας ιστορίας. Εσύ θα βρεις λέξεις να με σκοτώσεις — και κάθε μία τους, θα είναι δική μου ιστορία. Μίλα. Δεν με νοιάζει. Γιατί κανείς δεν πλήρωσε πιο ακριβά για μία γυναίκα. Έκλεψαν τη Λάουρα, πήγαν στην Κόλαση για τη Βεατρίκη, αρνήθηκαν εαυτούς για μια γυάλινη γόβα — μα κανείς δεν το έκανε όπως εμείς. Ελένη για κόσμους — κι εγώ το έκανα. Ελένη–Τροία. Η εκλεπτυσμένη. Η καταδικασμένη. Η ανεπιστρεπτί χαμένη. Η σφραγισμένη από μοίρα και λάθη. Εσύ που ενεργοποίησες το τέλος των πλανητών, καθυστερημένη έκρηξη, αναχρονισμός, απώλεια χρόνου, μια νέα σταθερά του σύμπαντος. Εσύ που μετακίνησες τους παγετώνες της ακινησίας. Αγάπη και λύπη. Το πιο απλό κορίτσι. Το πιο τέλειο κορίτσι. Χωρίς πάθος κι όμως — άξια λατρείας. Ελένη–Τροία.

#troy

[Alexander von der Neymark @neymark]

mambo (https://t.co/rVXdWzDkaq)

Troy. A tenderness beneath the marble sky. Streets handed over to the will of why. Streets filled with fear — your snow unknown. Every house of yours — alone. Night will startle your dread, and morning will burn your sleep instead. And if I do not love you — for whom, and why, will you so beautifully die, Troy? And if I stay. Change my mind. Turn off my thoughts. Obey the wind of fearless spring — I still won’t know how to protect a thing. That is — impossible. We all know you’ll fall. That this is the end. That betting on you is betting on none. That life without you is easier than with you. And still — we are not meant to be. We are meant to die — without a city and without love, Troy. You — without a city. I — without love. To hide you. To steal you from Sparta. To be with you each minute — means to abandon all hope infinite. And that is inevitable. And impossible. Beautiful. Hopeless. To be with you as one force. One shade. One body. To accept you as the last continent of hope. And if you give me choice — I choose you, Helena. For I hate my glorious homeland, Troy. And I know they will not understand. Will not accept. Will not forgive. To trade one’s country for a woman — who would ever permit it, Troy? Each square, each street, each bridge and fate — in you, my childhood city — feels vile, cold, and late. And I — I am a traitor. A void. A nothing. An antique exile. One for whom you could invent the most terrifying metaphors. And each one — is mine. Speak. I no longer care. For no one has ever paid so dearly for a woman. There were attempts — stealing Laura, descending for Beatrice, denying oneself for a crystal shoe. But not like us. Never. That I would trade whole worlds for you, Helena. And I do. Helena–Troy. My refined. My doomed. My irrevocably-lost Helena–Troy. My fate-fixed, forever-missed Helena–Troy. You — who set off a mechanism of planetary self-destruction. A delayed detonation. Anachronism. Entropy. A new constant. You — who shifted the ice of frozen balance. You — love and grief. The simplest girl. The perfect girl. Passionless and worshipful, Helena–Troy.

#troy

[Alexander von der Neymark @neymark]

Truva. Mermer göğün altında bir zarafet, denizin şefkatiyle örülmüş bir işaret. Sokaklar — kaderin ellerine bırakılmış. Ve senin tanınmayan karın korkusuyla dolmuş. Her evin — boş. Gece seni yakalayacak, sabah uykunu bozacak. Eğer seni sevmeyeceğimse, kimin için, neden bu kadar güzel öleceksin, Truva? Ve eğer kalırsam. Vazgeçersem. Düşüncelerimi susturursam. Baharın korkusuz rüzgârına teslim olursam bile — seni nasıl koruyacağımı yine de bilemem. Çünkü bu — imkânsız. Hepimiz biliriz ki düşeceksin. Sonun geleceğini, uğruna oynanan oyunun sıfırla sonuçlanacağını. Seninle olmak — felaket. Sensiz olmak — kolaylık. Ve yine de biliriz: bu bir kader değil. Biz, şehirsiz ve aşksız öleceğiz, Truva. Sen — şehirsiz, ben — aşksız. Seni saklamak, Spartadan kaçırmak, her an seninle olmak — umudu sonsuza dek bırakmak demek. Bu hem kaçınılmaz, hem imkânsız. Hem harika, hem umutsuz. Seninle tek bir güç olmak. Tek bir gölge. Tek bir beden. Seni, umudun son kıtası olarak kabul etmek. Eğer bana seçim verirsen — seni seçerim, Helena. Çünkü nefret ediyorum o güzelim vatanımdan, Truva. Ve biliyorum, beni anlamayacaklar. Affetmeyecekler. Kim, bir kadına vatanını değişmeme izin verir ki, Truva? Her meydanın, sokağın, köprünün, yazgının içinde — çocukluğumun şehri, tiksindirici, soğuk ve nefret dolusun, Truva. Ve ben — bir hainim, bir boşluk, bir hiçlik, antik bir yabancıyım. Senin en korkunç metaforlarını bulabileceğin kişiyim. Ve her biri — benim. Konuş. Artık umurumda değil. Çünkü hiç kimse, bir kadın için bu kadar yüksek bir bedel ödemedi. Denemeler oldu — Laura’nın kaçırılması, Beatrice için cehenneme iniş, bir cam ayakkabı uğruna kendinden vazgeçiş. Ama bizimki gibi bir şey — hiçbir yerde, hiçbir zaman olmadı. Ben dünyaları değiştiririm senin için, Helena. Ve yaparım da. Helena–Truva. Zarifim. Mahvolmuşum. Geri dönülmezim. Kaderinle mühürlenmişim. Gezegenleri yok edecek bir mekanizmayı sen başlattın. Gecikmiş bir patlama. Bir anakronizm. Çılgın dünyaların entropisi. Yeni bir varoluş sabiti. Donmuş dengelerin kayması sensin. Aşk ve keder sensin. En sıradan kız. En kusursuz kız. Tutkusuz ama tapılası. Helena–Truva.

#truva #troy #Turkey #Helena