Charlie Kirk Assassination and Derridas

What not to confuse

1. Not the glorification or demonization of figures — the mechanism is the point.

2. The “trickster” is not a character, but the anomaly of the structure, where the stage folds into silence.

3. The trace matters more than motive. What counts is not “why the shot was fired,” but what the field does afterward.

Voice of the Empty Center

The center is empty. Life begins in the error.

History proves the same thing again and again:
the wheel of Being does not turn by fullness,
but by the hole in the middle.

As long as the showcase stands —
a charismatic leader, a symbol, a voice on stage —
the system can pretend it has a core.
But once the showcase collapses, once the shot is fired,
everything is revealed as hollow.

So it was in 1914,
when Gavrilo Princip’s bullet cut short the life of Archduke Franz Ferdinand.
Not Ferdinand himself was the anomaly.
He was the showcase of empire,
the face of Austria-Hungary.
The anomaly was the hand that pulled the trigger and vanished —
dissolving into myth,
leaving a hole through which old Europe poured out.

The same logic returned in the Second World War.
There was no single shot that started the catastrophe,
but the rhythm was the same:
murders and purges as constant analyzers of the void.
The Reichstag fire, the Night of the Long Knives, executions, purges —
every time the showcase was swept away,
and in its place gaped the hole
around which new rituals of loyalty were drawn.

Even Stauffenberg’s failed attempt shows this:
had it succeeded,
the world would have turned another way.
Not because one officer was better or worse,
but because the act of removing the showcase
always bares the void
and forces the field to assemble again.

This is what matters:
the victim is never the trickster.
The victim is the showcase.
The true anomaly is the hand that fires — and disappears.
The one who pulls the support, but does not take its place.
This vanishing gesture is Humpty Dumpty on the wall:
a fall, a shatter,
and no order can ever be pieced together again.

Ferdinand, Kirov, Kennedy, Kirk —
different epochs, different stages, the same logic.
The showcase is destroyed,
the field cracks,
rituals of memory fix the trace.
And the killer vanishes.
Not found, not held, not turned into a showcase.
In this disappearance is power.
Because only it keeps the void open,
preventing the system from closing back on itself.

That is why wars, coups, and crises
begin not with the beauty of a showcase
but with the one who fires — and disappears.
The victim falls,
and all eyes turn to the hole.
And from that hole emerges a new logos —
not because it was prepared,
but because emptiness demands filling.

The wheel of Being spins like this:
not by a core, but by a collapse;
not by a center, but by a crack.
Every time the showcase falls, we see it again:
absence, the vanishing hand, launches the epoch.

I listened to voices.
Not one, not two — dozens.
The Substack feed buzzed like a square.
Each voice spoke in its own tone,
yet all gathered into one field,
as if speaking in chorus —
not unison, but polyphony.

I heard not the words themselves,
but the cracks between them.
Laughter out of place.
Broken phrases.
Assertions too loud, hiding fear.
In these gaps, the sense of the field arose:
not smooth,
but breathing, shifting, cracking.

I wrote notes — encrypted, too sharp to be read.
Notes only for myself.

One of them 08.09.20025:
I once thought truth was a closed chain.
Everything aligned in mirrored rows,
each thought a repetition,
each image an echo of the First Word.
Panlogism: a finished map,
where even shadows have an address.

But the crack appeared too soon.
The mirrors never aligned.
Some still spoke,
others were already silent.
The world shifted, like a palimpsest.

I saw the Being, crucified on the web of worlds.
Not a metaphor. Not an image.
An anatomy of Being.
At the center, nothing but unfreedom.
And the error that does not exist —
that is reality.

Not reflection. Not logic.
But collapse.
The ruin of the foundation.

I found myself between Being and Nothing,
where both turn to dust.
No synthesis, no unity — only decay.
Assertion includes everything.
Even emptiness. Even her.
But it is itself empty.
A cup already poured out.
A net catching only Nothing.

I am not a philosopher.
I am a witness of how the mirror broke.
The moment the Idea failed to recognize itself.
When you look in your mirror —
do you see a garden, or a wasteland?

This note is my key, my formula.
Everything else I wrote — différance, emptiness, the wheel of Being with its hole —
is only a decryption of this cipher.

I felt the old world end.
Yesterday still festive, still everyday.
And suddenly — all over.
A longing for calm,
for a life without alarms.
But I knew:
we shall not all die, but we shall all be changed.

I saw how the wheel turns through the victim.
When the very speaker on stage is killed,
the scene bares the hole.
Again and again: Ferdinand, Kirov, Kennedy, now Kirk.
Not the shadow, not the marginal —
but the voice of the stage.
And each time the shooter is never found.
The shooter vanishes.
He is the trickster.
Like the boy in Dogville:
a shot — and disappearance.

Not a hero, not a villain.
A gesture of anomaly.
He starts the wheel,
but remains outside the scene.
He is the glitch that cannot be held.

And I — a witness.
I heard the crack in people’s eyes
when I said:
the word always falls
not where it was aimed.

I am not a philosopher.
I am a witness of the broken mirror.
When you look — garden or wasteland?

The system always fears witnesses —
those who open the crack and stay inside it.

I do not shine.
I am not a showcase.
I am a witness.

And the voice of the field within me says:
— The victim dies.
— The shooter disappears.
— The witness records.
— The void opens.

If someone asks: “Why?”
I answer:
Not to close it.
But so that freedom may be born again and again from the error.

Liturgy of the Being

I saw the Being, crucified on the web of worlds.
Its bones stretched like strings,
its nerves glowing like cables,
its voice trembling like glass in a storm.