Lexo Expihio Santhe

Truth is not created by understanding, but recognized by that soul that gives up trying to explain everything.

There are days when I feel like a scribe lost in a desert of signs, where each letter is a grain of sand that, instead of building a meaning, buries the thought that has not yet been spoken. Because writing means, perhaps, trying to organize this dust storm into a coherent form that recalls order, that illusion of structure. However, writing is never from within, but projected outward. It is an act of distance from one's own voice, reflected beyond the immediacy of feeling. It is as if my hand does not belong to me, as if each word were traced by an ancient wind that only uses me, the passing scribe, to display its traces left in the dust of time.

A scribe does not write to explain his world, but to live it from the edge, where the vision is clear precisely because it is not reconciled with what he sees. For this reason I refrained, under the impact of lucid silence, knowing that only in retreat will I be able to truly listen. Perhaps writing is an illusory oasis in the desert that grows inside us, but does not belong to us?

I believe something else. Writing - as I now intuit it - is a kind of lucid exile, a territory you inhabit without really touching it, a "Lexo Expihio Santhe", a kind of writerly desert, in which every oasis is an illusion of meaning, a projection of the thirst for understanding.

Is your true knowledge obtained from within things, or from your conscious positioning outside of them?

I am reminded of that moment in The Name of the Rose, about that secret library that, in all its labyrinthine complexity, does not reveal itself from the inside, but only from the outside, from an angle that makes it resemble a thought from the divine mind. "This is how God knows the world, because he conceived it in his head, as from the outside,"says Adso. And suddenly it becomes clear: perhaps things become intelligible only when we cease to be part of them. Knowing often involves giving up the intimacy of the thing, stepping out of it, positioning yourself in the space of the creator and not the occupant.

How does writing become a form of knowledge, only when it is contemplated from the outside, like a silent mirror reflecting consciousness? After all, only in the act of looking outward can the demiurgic gesture be found, and writing becomes the most human gesture to approach it.

To put it another way. What nature refuses - because it is not our thought, but a given and unfiltered reality - man tries to rebuild in art. Thus, any text is a library seen from the outside, a temple of signs that must be thought before being inhabited. In this sense, I fully understood "Suspensio Libris", that state of suspension between living the world and transcribing it, between feeling it and conceiving it. It is a state in which we do not live in the world, but in its metamorphosis, like an artist who paints not what he sees, but what he understands from the light.

What drives you to project yourself outside of your own experiences without rejecting or distorting them, to understand them as an act of creation in itself?

Yes. There are times when I feel that I am not writing about life, but about the way I wish I had witnessed it. As if I were, at the same time, the tired actor and the director returning to a missed scene from an unfinished film forgotten in a drawer of memory. In this context, the act of writing is not a reflex of the real, but a return of the real towards a more coherent, more beautiful, more human possibility. It is as if my words wanted to repair the imperfection of the silence from which they come, so that the meaning would take shape, beyond the initial fracture of the experience.

To project yourself outside of your own experiences, to understand them as an act of creation in itself, means to contemplate them with lucidity, as if you were witnessing a story that is still being written, but no longer fully yours.

Writing becomes a way of reformulating the world not in terms of truth, but in terms of internal beauty - in terms of an order that we can assume. Just as the library is not just a space of knowledge, but a map of shared solitude. Are you right, or not? Because writing is not just communication, but our attempt to remain - like the hieroglyphs on ancient tablets - in a timeless space. It is a fight against forgetting, an attempt to fix the moment in an alphabet that only another exiled scribe will decipher. And perhaps the truth lies not in the sentence itself, but in the gaze of the one who reads it from the outside, with the detachment of an anonymous God.

Leadership manifests itself in the ability to look at the world and the self from outside of immediate involvement, to understand, with the lucidity of a creator, the meaning of a process of inner transformation.

Lexo Expihio Santhe symbolizes conscious wandering through suspended meanings, hence the idea that the library, like the endless desert, can make you get lost in the labyrinth of signs or can guide you to an unexpected revelation. Writing is, perhaps, a mirage, but a necessary one. In that desert of words, we, the scribes, do not seek a real oasis, but a reflection of a lost world. A world seen not with the eye of the one who lives in it, but with the mind of the one who reimagines it from outside the self.