Absolute moral certainty functions as an inverted mirror where the subject projects outward what they cannot recognize within themselves. The most toxic individuals navigate the world armed with an impenetrable conviction: their cruelty is justice, their attack is defense, their sadism is virtue. This armor of righteousness not only shields from external questioning but fortifies against the anguish of internal doubt. Paradoxically, the more ferocious the moral crusade, the less capacity exists to recognize the shadow that motivates it. The subject who hunts monsters needs to constantly create them; their identity depends on having an enemy to attack. The very energy that could be directed toward introspection is channeled into identifying others' faults, transforming the social field into a tribunal where they are always judges, never the accused. Clinical work reveals that behind these unshakeable moral certainties lies a fundamental terror: the fear of discovering one's own ethical ambivalence. The analyst observes how identification with "the good" functions precisely as a defense against the anguish of recognizing that we all inhabit gray zones, that moral purity is a fiction, and that pointing out others' flaws always conceals a fascination with what we claim to repudiate.

We inhabit words we never built: the subject arrives into a world where signifiers have already carved the paths through which desire will travel. Like heirs to a millennial symbolic architecture, we enter the social space through phonemes that awaited us even before our first cry. We don't choose the grammar that will shape our mind; we are chosen by it, perpetual tenants in a house built by anonymous ancestors. The analytic experience reveals how, paradoxically, the more we claim ownership over words, the more they demonstrate their foreign character. Like the actor who memorizes a script until forgetting they're repeating lines written by another, we convince ourselves we speak with our own voice when we're simply modulating an echo. Language makes us believe we are its masters precisely when it most effectively traverses and determines us. The contemporary subject must confront this primordial linguistic colonization. Recognizing the constitutive exteriority of speech not to surrender to it, but to establish a less naive relationship with that symbolic Other that inhabits us. Possible freedom doesn't consist of escaping language, but creatively inhabiting its limits, transforming the borrowed house into a space where our desire finds its singular intonation.

Clinical experience reveals that certainty functions primarily as an anxiolytic: we cling to what we "know" not because it's true, but because it quiets our existential trembling. The contemporary subject abandons doubt precisely when it's most needed: during periods of accelerating change and complexity. This rejection of uncertainty creates a form of psychic rigidity that paradoxically increases fragility: the more desperately we grasp for solid ground, the more vulnerable we become to disorientation when that ground inevitably shifts. The therapeutic process demonstrates how questioning our own convictions creates necessary flexibility: doubt becomes not weakness but strength, not indecision but protection against the seductions of dogmatism. This paradox appears throughout analysis: patients achieve security not through certainty but through tolerating ambiguity, recognizing that "knowing for sure" often conceals deeper defensive structures beneath its confident surface. Societies, like individuals, manifest symptoms when certainty calcifies into ideology: totalitarianism emerges not from questioning but from its absence. Democracy requires precisely what makes it vulnerable: the capacity to doubt itself. The political subject thus exists in productive tension: committed enough to act, doubtful enough to reflect.

Clinical experience reveals that analysis always functions as an unmasking: we remove the cosmetic layers covering what we fear to see directly. Like a detective pursuing clues beneath disguises, the analyst follows each signifier only to discover another mask beneath—creating an infinite regression of concealments. This paradox forms the foundation of analytical work: we seek truth while discovering that truth itself wears costumes. The contemporary subject exists in this tension between revelation and disguise: speaking to reveal while simultaneously hiding within language. Words become both pathways and barriers—illuminating meaning while obscuring the very content they claim to express. This contradiction explains why true analysis requires patience: each layer removed exposes not the final truth, but another level of symbolic concealment. Analysis thus becomes not the triumphant discovery of hidden meaning, but the humble acknowledgment of meaning's endless displacement. The therapeutic breakthrough occurs not when we find the ultimate signifier, but when we recognize the productive impossibility of such a discovery. Language both reveals and conceals simultaneously.

At the core of our being lies a fundamental fracture, a fissure that speaks to our inherent incompleteness. This crack in our existential foundation is not a flaw to be corrected, but a gateway through which the presence of others becomes essential. We are, by nature, insufficient unto ourselves, requiring the support, recognition, and connection of those around us to truly flourish. This realization - that we are not self-contained units but interconnected beings - can be both humbling and liberating. It challenges our narcissistic tendencies, the illusion of self-sufficiency that often keeps us isolated and unfulfilled. By acknowledging our dependence on others, we open ourselves to a more authentic way of being, one that embraces vulnerability as a strength rather than a weakness. It is in this recognition of our fractured nature that the seeds of love are sown. As we relinquish the pursuit of an impossible wholeness, we create space for genuine connection. Love, in its purest form, emerges not from two complete individuals coming together, but from the mutual support and acceptance of our shared incompleteness. In this dance of reciprocal need and care, we find not just companionship, but a profound affirmation of our humanity. References Lacan, J. (2010). El Seminario 11: Los cuatro conceptos fundamentales del psicoanálisis. Paidós. (Seminario impartido en 1964)

The dream of purity haunts Western thought like a beautiful poison: the more we pursue the fantasy of an untainted subject, the more violence we inflict on the messy reality of human existence. This is no accident of philosophy but its founding gesture: the belief that somewhere, beneath the chaos of experience, lies a pure, essential self waiting to be uncovered. Every attempt to reach this mythical purity leaves a trail of broken bodies and shattered souls. The metaphysics of the pure subject operates through a double violence: first by declaring impurity a deviation to be corrected, then by making this correction an ethical imperative. We see this logic at work everywhere: in education systems that standardize minds, in social programs that normalize behavior, in cultural ideals that pathologize difference. The pursuit of purity always requires the elimination of what is deemed impure. The true horror lies not in our failure to achieve this pure subject but in the devastation created by the endless pursuit of this impossible ideal. Every genocide, every ethnic cleansing, every program of social purification begins with this metaphysical dream: that if we could just eliminate the impure elements, we would finally arrive at the pristine essence of being. The violence is not in the execution but in the very ideal itself.

Fascism reveals a disturbing truth about collective desire: the fantasy of absolute purity seduces before it terrifies. It's not just a political ideology but a social pathology that promises to resolve the anguish of difference by eliminating the different. Like a nightmare that begins as a dream of perfect order and ends in a nightmare of extermination. The fascist seduction operates precisely in this promise of radical simplicity: a world without conflicts because there are no others, a society without anxiety because there is no difference, an identity without fissures because all alterity has been eliminated. The delusion of uniformity becomes a political project, transforming the fantasy of completeness into a program of annihilation. What's truly terrifying is not that fascism is a historical aberration but a latent temptation in every culture. Like a collective symptom that reveals the dark reverse of our desire for order and belonging. Politics thus becomes the stage where culture acts out its most primitive fantasies, where the dream of unity becomes a nightmare of elimination.

There's a persistent fantasy in our time: that of a universality that erases differences, that standardizes experiences, that flattens singularities. But true universality operates in a radically different way: it doesn't eliminate differences but traverses them, finding what's common precisely in the recognition of what separates us. Genuinely universal thought doesn't emerge from ignoring the fractures that divide us, but from confronting them in all their rawness. It's precisely when we recognize the depth of our differences that we can begin to build real bridges, not simulacra of understanding. The common doesn't pre-exist the encounter: it emerges as a consequence of traversing what distinguishes us. The paradox is that we can only reach the universal through the particular, we only arrive at the common through the recognition of the singular. A universality that cannot contain differences is nothing but disguised totalitarianism. True common thought is not a starting point but a construction that emerges from facing our differences head-on.

We have grown accustomed to thinking that radicality lies in polarization, that strength resides in the ability to exclude others, to mark them as enemies. The true revolution of our time, however, consists precisely of the opposite: in the subversive act of seeking what's common amid difference. There is nothing more radical than building bridges where others construct walls. The search for the universal is not a form of cowardice nor an attempt to dilute conflicts. It is, on the contrary, the bravest act: recognizing in others, even in those who antagonize us, a humanity that challenges us. The true revolutionaries of our time are not those who shout the loudest from their trenches, but those who dare to cross the dividing lines. The paradox is that commonality doesn't emerge from minimizing differences but from recognizing them in their full magnitude. Only when we accept that the other is radically different can we begin to build authentic universality. Real dialogue doesn't begin with agreement but with the deep acceptance of disagreement.

Analytic work shows us a paradoxical truth: the subject is not a substance that pre-exists language, but the very effect that emerges in the play of signifiers. We are not the cause of our saying, but its consequence: we appear as that fleeting flash that arises when one signifier articulates with another, in that interstitial space where meaning is produced. Subjectivity resides in no fixed point nor stable essence: it is that perpetual movement that slides between words, that productive absence that allows signifiers to chain together and produce effects of meaning. Like a shadow that exists only between the objects that project it, the subject emerges in the interval between signifiers. What we call "I" is merely the attempt to give consistency to this elusive play of representations. The true subject is not the one who speaks, but the one who is spoken in the signifying chain, the one who appears as an effect of meaning between the words that name and constitute it without ever being able to capture it completely.

The analytic experience confronts us with a disturbing truth: we are not the sovereign authors of our discourse. Far from being ventriloquists who consciously manipulate their words, we are more like puppets repeating borrowed voices without knowing it. The discourse we believe our own is woven with threads of borrowed words, echoes of others who inhabit us without our notice. The unconscious operates as an anonymous scriptwriter who writes our most intimate lines. Each slip of the tongue, each failed act, each dream reveals the presence of this hidden author who speaks through us. We don't choose the words that mark us: they choose us, emerging from a place we don't control, following a logic that exceeds us. What we call "speaking for oneself" is actually a complex network of inherited voices, signifiers that preceded us, words that named us before we could name. The illusion of originality is precisely that: an illusion that analysis comes to disturb, revealing that we are spoken more than we speak.

The analytic space reveals a truth that shakes the foundations of childhood experience: the real trauma isn't physical abandonment, but the discovery that maternal desire is directed elsewhere. The first betrayal doesn't come from an act of negligence, but from the moment we discover that we aren't everything to the mother, that her gaze and desire can turn toward other objects. The father appears here not only as a real figure, but as a function that embodies this first structuring rivalry. He is the one who introduces the dimension of time into love, who marks the limits of jouissance between mother and child. His presence announces a disturbing truth: love has schedules, maternal desire has other destinations, imaginary completeness is impossible. This primordial narcissistic wound is, paradoxically, what allows us to become desiring subjects. Only when we accept that we aren't everything to the Other, that maternal desire exceeds and precedes us, can we begin to construct our own desire. The paternal function doesn't castrate pleasure: it opens the possibility of desire.