Zelensky seems doomed. A fate with three increasingly grim options. First, he could vanish into the fog of history, making way for a cardboard leader, carefully crafted from promises of peace and pressed cardboard. Second, he might physically disappear, aided by his "Russian friends," masters in discrete eliminations and improbable accidents. Or third, he could continue fighting until the Greek calends, in a war that some have already turned into a stage set for an operetta – lots of pathos, few resources, and a predictable ending. Meanwhile, the NATO leader, with the air of a teacher exasperated by a student who still believes in ideals, has joined the chorus of moralizers. Zelensky must apologize. But not just any apology! A simple bow would be insufficient. The Americans, in their well-known generosity, have suggested something... more theatrical. He should take his pants off, flex, and, if possible, keep a wide, grateful smile. To show that he truly understands the lesson. And for the full effect, it would be ideal if he could enthusiastically shout that he actually likes it. To convince the audience that humiliation is an honor, that vassalage is a privilege, and that, in the end, nothing is more beautiful than being applauded for your own capitulation.
He has few friends, but justice is on his side. And when he's long gone, when his speeches are but fragments in dusty documentaries, the unimaginable will happen: Russia will disintegrate. Not with the noise of victories, but with the dry crack of an empire that has forgotten its purpose. It will explode into small pieces, like a card castle struck by an unexpected gust of wind. It will crumble between the resentments of the peoples it kept under its boot and the ruin of an elite unable to justify its existence. And on maps, that vast territory, once so menacing, will disappear, leaving behind only the memory of a historical mistake. It will remain only in history books, like a bad dream, a dark shadow over centuries of suffering, a greasy oil stain on the white dress of a future that no longer wants it. Among his few close friends is the President of France. Emmanuel Macron – a decent, educated, stylish man, and above all, well-intentioned. A politician who knows how to navigate the traps of diplomacy with the grace of a ballet dancer, even when the floor is covered in shards. Between the two, there is an obvious chemistry, an understanding beyond words, a partnership born not only out of necessity, but also from a shared vision. And from this connection, from this constant dialogue between Ukrainian tragedy and European idealism, a miracle may emerge. The impossible can become possible. A gesture, a strategy, an unexpected plan—something that will keep Ukraine alive and give meaning to the fight. After all, wars are not won only on the frontlines but also in the salons where history is written before it happens. And in the end, when everything accelerates toward its fatal conclusion, those who laugh passionately will have proven their monumental naivety. Like spectators at a horror movie who believe, with a superior smile, that the monsters can't escape the screen. When they realize they can – and that they do – it will be too late. The only option left? A forced smile in the face of propaganda and an enthusiastic applause for their own executioners. History has clearly shown where this road leads, but as we all know, those who do not learn from the past are condemned to repeat it. Only this time, not in black and white, in dusty archives, but live, on the one and only channel, in HD format, with automatic subtitles and enthusiastic commentary. At first, everything will be festive. Selfies with moralizing signs, slogans shouted with passion, heroic messages flooding social media. A comfortable revolution, with the option of "likes" and dramatic filters. Then, for everyone's entertainment, the shows will begin: grand spectacles in stadiums, patriotic anthems sung with tears in their eyes, flawlessly choreographed routines, and slogans about the nation's greatness repeated ad nauseam. But the real spectacle will take place elsewhere. Many of the most vocal, inevitably young and enthusiastic, will become "fertilizer" on the fronts of special operations that no one will be allowed to question anymore. And the rest, those who stay home, will quickly learn that "fun" has become mandatory. Those who don't laugh at the right time, who don't clap loudly enough, or who blink at the wrong moment – will receive a discreet reeducation. And slowly, slowly, the silence will come. But not the silence of prosperity, no – that heavy, funereal silence, the one that falls like an iron curtain over exhausted societies. The silence of the grave, as in the darkest times, when laughter suddenly stopped at three in the morning, with the knock on the door. What is happening now is of the utmost irresponsibility, an unconscious dance on the edge of the abyss. And, as expected, the bill will not be long in coming – and it will be expensive for all of us. Meanwhile, Macron and Zelensky are trying to maintain balance in a mechanical ballet, sliding between Trump and the psychopath in Red Square. An impossible choreography, a grotesque circus where some are still laughing, convinced it's all just a show. But soon, the laughter will become nervous. And after that – mandatory.
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