My journey began in the wind of the olive trees; I was swept through the northern corridors of thought. Now, in the shadow of the Alps, I trace the contours of truth with words. It was a curiosity that sprouted on the ancient shores of the Aegean that first set me on my way. In the stones, in the salt of the sea, in the echo of myths, I heard a calling. While I lost myself in the labyrinths of physical equations, I buried myself in the codes of the digital world. My analytical mind kept circling around one question:
“What is that fragile silence inside a human being?”
Over time, I understood that the pen reaches deeper than any laboratory.
What an equation cannot solve is sometimes whispered by a single sentence.
One day the ink stopped merely writing; it began to think, to pray.
Writing became less a production than an existential answer.
Like the phoenix that rises from its ashes, my words, too, were reborn with every burning.
They were no longer works for me, but testimonies:
testimonies that serve as a compass for the lost souls of the modern age.
I have words that breathe in many languages.
Some were handed down to me; others I learned in the silence of the night.
Each one is a key:
“Truth does not belong to a single language; the soul finds its voice anew in every tone.”
That is why every one of my works is not just a text,
but a bridge beyond cultures,
a passage leading to the shared resonance within a human being.
I now live in the silent wisdom of the mountains. In the shadow of the clouds, I listen to the language of silence. The curiosity in a little girl’s eyes teaches me every day how to begin again. Being a father is the greatest poem I have ever written. Every story I tell her feels like a manifesto I am writing for humanity. “To be able to look at a child with hope is more sacred than all books,” I tell myself. My professional self and my artistic self are like the two banks of a river: one mind, one intuition. Sometimes overflowing, sometimes calm, yet always fed by the same source. As I walked, I learned: thinking is not merely a mental act, but the deepest form of worship of existence. Like the phoenix, every thought dies — only to be reborn as truth. I am the written witness of that transformation. Every book is ash left from a burning; every sentence is a new question rising from the cinders.
And you…
You are one of the fellow travelers gathered around this fire.
You are not just reading; you are remembering.
Because every text is a reminder, and every word is a door inward.
I have only one intention:
to be a compass for those who have forgotten their direction in this lost age.
Not to find your way for you — but to help you realize that it has always been within you.
Whatever language you read in, whichever continent you walk on:
the direction you are seeking has always been inside you.
I merely open a small door into that silence.
