Scriptorem Serpentis

The true power of the word lies not in controlling reality, but in accepting that, by writing it, you become part of it.

Ever since I began writing on that dried snake skin, found in a deserted oasis in the heart of the desert, I knew that my letters carried a power beyond ordinary understanding. And it is no coincidence. This sacred skin was not a simple writing surface, but a living medium that transformed every touch of the brush into an invocation, for everything I wrote suddenly became reality.

Letters generally do not describe the world – they give birth to it with every drop of ink, with every swirl of metaphor, with every pulse of inspiration. And I also believe that every symbol I imprinted on this mystical parchment became a grain of sand in the hidden sea of reality, weaving stories that go beyond the limits of visible writing to penetrate the very fabric of existence.

The first time I wrote on this strange skin, I felt the words take on physical weight, each letter becoming a seed planted in the soil of reality. At first I described a well in the desert, and the next day I found the spring in the very place I had imagined. Then I wrote about a bird with golden feathers, and in the evening the same birds began to fly in shining circles above my tent. It was not magic in the ordinary sense of the word, but a form of divine co-creation, a direct participation in the process by which thought becomes matter, by which imagination condenses into palpable experience. To invent worlds is to lose your place in your own.

Can you accept that the memory that once defined you as a separate individual is melting into the echo of lives lived by others, but carried by you?

With each story written on snakeskin, I began to understand that there was a price for this obscure art – a price I had not consciously negotiated, but which I paid with each completed sentence. For to create, you must give up yourself with each written word, letting the story consume you slowly but inevitably, like fire that consumes the old essence to reveal the new form. And each character I lightly outlined, with a trembling brush, stole a piece of my identity, each landscape I depicted absorbed a piece of my personal memory. I suppose it was a kind of "Sacrificium Identitatis" – a subtle exchange of essence through which the creator gradually melts into his creation.

With each page animated by the echo of an ancient memory, I discovered that the snakeskin retains the living imprint of all the words written on it, creating a living narrative organism, a sensory papyrusin which previous stories influence new ones. And when I write about life now, with all its shadows and revelations, echoes of all the lives I have described before blend into a new narrative.

Even when I depict death in a strange and contemplative scene, with writing trembling with intensity, all the fictional deaths I have created before suddenly gather like a dark chorus behind each word, forming an echo of the endless end. Thus, the skin has become not just a support for writing, but a living archive of all stories, a metamorphic codexthat transforms the act of writing into a dialogue with all previous narratives.

Can you weave the real with the imaginary, so as to dissolve the boundary between personal memory and the fiction that insinuates itself into it?

Over time, I began to notice subtle changes in my own being. My memory seemed to fade in places, seemingly consumed by the narrative flow, being replaced by memories of the characters I had created, so many times, with much visceral dedication. Then, my creations were populated with figures that did not originally belong to me, who did not come from my biography, but emerged from the stories written on my skin. It was as if the boundaries between me and my works were constantly thinning, as if I had become a transfiguring channel through which all narratives pass, irreversibly modifying me in the process of their passage through my consciousness.

One night, as I wrote late into the night on the snake skin, I had a disturbing revelation: I realized that I no longer knew for sure which of my thoughts were truly mine, and which were echoes of characters I had created. Who was I before I started writing on this ancient skin? And who would I be when the last word was written on the last corner of this mysterious parchment? These questions haunted me like persistent shadows, without finding answers that would reassure me.

It was only later that I understood why the scroll had been hidden in the deserted oasis – not to protect it from the outside world, but to protect the world from its reality-shaping power that could no longer be controlled once it was awakened. Sometimes, you hide what you are not allowed to understand, and what you see can change who you think you are.

Is your evolution born from dialogue with stories from the past, leaving traces in the way you experience the present?

And so, the story began to write me more than I wrote it. The words now came naturally, as if I had become merely a channel through which a larger narrative manifested itself, an archetypal story that used me as an instrument in its own unfolding. It was a process so intimate and total that I could no longer tell the difference between inspiration and possession, between creation and metamorphosis.

Only in the end did I understand that this is the ultimate test of an initiated scribe: to accept that one's art is not just a personal expression, but a transformation of being itself that irreversibly changes the structure of one's own consciousness. That to give birth to truly living stories, one must risk one's own life in the deepest sense of the word – not biological life, but identity, memory, the sense of self that defines one as an individual separate from the world around one.

Who will you be after the subtle connection with the element that defined you, but no longer reflects you, has spoken its last word?

Scriptorem Serpentis teaches us that the ultimate art cannot be practiced without the sacrifice of identity. For in order to give birth to truly living and transformative works, the creator must accept to be transformed himself in the process of inner revelation. As for the snake skin, it was not just a parchment anchored in the mystery of the ages, but a spiritual catalyst that can accelerate the metamorphosis of the one who dares to write on it.

In each letter traced on this living surface, the scribe not only created new meanings in an old world – but became part of the great Story that writes itself through all beings who have the courage to abandon themselves completely to the act of creation. And perhaps this is the true immortality of the artist: not to remain unchanged over time, but to melt so completely into his work that he becomes eternal through the transformation that simultaneously consumed and reborn him.