The Story Becomes The Blood Of The Writer

To create something authentic, you have to let yourself be transformed into the living matter of the story by the very dialogue you have with it.

Words are not mere vestiges, but seeds of a new world, which comes to life from the vibrant depths of the soul of the one who lays them down. For the moment I began to write on the old parchment, forgotten by time under the sands, I felt how the entire matter began to speak to me in foreign languages, blowing over my fingers the breath of a call from beyond reality. In the letters woven with divine breath, so alive and pulsating, something more alive than blood flowed.

I did not choose this parchment forgotten in the heart of the desert, but I believe it chose me. Because in its vibration I found not just a surface, but a door, a kind of portal to an unseen dimension. And my letters, far from describing something, did something else: they gave birth to forms, to parallel times. They were a kind of shaping of the void into form, as if I were a hand guided by an ancient intention, one that could not be spoken without breaking into thousands of shiny shards. My vision was contaminated by the bleeding words, and I could not stop them from writing themselves inside me.

Leadership: Are you ready to admit that you will become just a narrative, once you understand that you are not the author, but the written character?

Well, in a world that always seeks its meaning through numbers and contours, this power of writing became a curse and a gift. Especially since I was the author of a living language, which no longer fully belonged to me. Not by chance, I felt how each word fixed in the parchment responded in me, like an anchor in the deep memory of a ship made of memories, or like a seal burned on the skin. For writing was no longer a simple gesture, but a ritual, and I — just the vessel through which the forms of another world passed. Perhaps in a universe where everything fades away, the story becomes the only form of authentic resistance.

It was as if, in each lost sentence, another version of the world was being written, one in which shadows found voice and light bent. I could call this state "text-sanguine", a combination of text and blood, because that's exactly what it became — a silent bleeding between words. And the bleeding became an inner well, ever deeper, causing reality itself to dissolve into the narrative fluid. Hence my vision of the art of writing, transposed into an echo of an inner calling: "write as if your life were the text that writes you back."

Leadership: What does it mean to write at the cost of your own being, knowing that each sentence empties you of what you are, but fills the world with what could not exist before you?

I once read, when I was young and unwise, in an old, musty book, a phrase that seared the edges of my soul: "Writing is a form of necromancy - you raise the dead not from the earth, but from oblivion." A lost author had said this, probably buried under his own phrases, but that idea followed me like an echo of a forbidden thought. It was more than a metaphor - it was a law. A kind of silent oath between life and memory. Because when you lay down something truly alive, a part of you dies to bring it to the surface.

Would you still be you if you stopped writing?

Just as Leonardo DaVinci often painted with twilight in his eyes, I too began to write not to convey ephemeral messages, but to transfigure what had been forgotten and silent. For in my pages, ideas did not live, but entities that breathed through the lines. It was not about symbols, but invocations of a world beyond time. And slowly, I understood: I was not shaping the story, but it was shaping me, slowly but surely, like water digging into a mountain.

Thus, all that was dead through oblivion came alive, because the true story doesn't ask for permission—it asks for blood. It was as if I was being carved from the words I wrote, each metaphor a chisel striking my outline, causing an endless but revelatory bleeding.

Leadership: Do you recognize the moments when you don't shape situations, but they shape you, in the concrete reality of living that "rewrites" you?

There was a mysterious but unmistakable alchemy in that strange loss. A kind of burning that gave birth to the subtle forms of others, but which would not have existed without my silent sacrifice. What happened? As I melted into the letters, I felt a reverse growth, a kind of rebirth in others. Somehow, my story became the beautiful nightmare of others, a vision that changed the trajectory of their souls. It was something indistinct. Something that vibrated beyond meaning. Slowly, slowly, I began to sense that the inner burning that emptied me of myself was, in fact, a pact: I was not sacrificing myself in vain, but so that others might see differently what could not be directly spoken. After all, it is a form of sacrificial luminescence to become a living story that lights the path of others.

In symbolist painting, there is a vague and penetrating term: chiaroscuro. Violent contrasts between light and shadow define form. Perhaps my writing was the chiaroscuro of my own essence - the alternation between what I was and what I was becoming, as my shadows illuminated the words and my light created shadows within me. Moreover, I invented another word for this state: "writing". It is the state of being simultaneously the author and the witness of one's own creative dissolution. Because true creation does not elevate you, but spreads you into the consciousness of another; it does not strengthen you, but melts you into the story of the one who reads it.

To assume your artistic existence means to understand that true creation does not elevate you, but spreads you into the stories of those you animate through your words.

The story becomes the blood of the writer when the words are no longer mine, but of a voice that inhabits me through the breath of eternal mystery. I thus come to believe that writing - in its absolute form - is not just an activity, but a ritual of initiation. For you do not write to be read. You write to be transformed. And the one who writes thus, through the vortex of divine inspiration, can no longer belong to the world before. But is a being of language, a transcript born of his own burning.