Today is the 62nd day since a domestic accident forced me to stand still for several weeks. Surrounded by books and computers, I accommodated my bed to my basic physiological needs and the window of my bedroom served as a lookout, turned into the secret spy of the peers from one side to the other. Surely before me, the waters of the river, which has travelled the same way for thousands of years, are waiting for more speed, apparently in the hope of reaching the shore.

The river reminds me of the mystery of a person's life. They go down the two corners and I get the illusions and dreams of those men and women who come, as well as the misfortunes, even though I don't know the names of the characters. But I am with them, up and down, because from birth we have tried to overcome a similar path: health, well-being, peace, eternity... poverty, nudity, uncertainty, death. No reasoned certainty and systematized truthfulness mitigates the feeling of dependence, limiting the infinite sense of disability. A suffocating feeling, which not only leaves our hands, but escapes us from our finite faculties, puts us before destiny as prisoners.

The symbolism of the river, with its small and large waters, becomes shocking for those who want to continue to climb the streams. It would be a crazy workshop to go back to the spring. Just as the drops of water are heading down – towards the breadth of the sea – we – the walkers of life – must find new horizons, where they hide in the immense depth of the sea through the shores or the sand of the desert. If we come to them, each of us will read in itself the sign details that belong to him. And the search becomes eternal because we don't know where they are beforehand.

Our Western civilization has long worsened man's intelligence by putting before it values that were not his own. Everything is prepared to numb the senses and punishes us with rationalism, despising even the least freedom of the mind. The mystery of life has been erased from our everyday menus. It's not in the interest of the system. The news we are being served is that in Syria an artifact has killed forty people. Or that in our neighborhood, a woman has been raped by some young people. And we stayed on the skin. We're afraid to investigate what's underneath all this. It looks like we're not able to scream "enough!" and take a step forward. Something drags us backwards, as if I should like to point out that asking questions about asphyxiating rationalism will only bring us difficulties.

But I'm convinced that it's up to us to be nomads, so that tomorrow I don't know where I'm going to have the camp. Stability of life sets us boundaries and makes us believe that we have a space that is not ours. And finally, in their defense, it leads us to undermine one's own life. To be nomads, precisely, so that we do not think that we are lords of any truth. Nomads, let's be quick to blame for our mistakes. Nomads, in short, to review our daily program. There is not a letter that is well written. Therefore, attention and attention must be paid to the literature of life.