Until now, retirement has turned the pensioner into a pensioner, with a monthly allowance. As long as this is going to be so, it cannot be said, because they are determined to derail the welfare state, from right to left (I know that the expression is contrary, but now we are all with ideological dyslexia, and almost nobody will be able to guess in those two words what it should be).

Now that I have just retired, I have the impression that you have taken the last wagon from the last train, but I am convinced that this is not a real question, neither of the speed of the train nor of the width of the track, but of whether there will be any train running later, or, rather, of how many will take the road on foot, and how many will have the chance to make the journey on foot.

The question, as my petty philosopher Humpty Dumpty would say (or would not say), is who will decide in the future who is who, who is what and who is the miserable. Incidentally, it would be better not to worry so much about the ideology of waste, but rather about the rubbish of ideologies.

As things stand, everything is an ethical problem today, or at least it should be. However, it seems that this “ethical ground” we use from word to mouth is limited to the scope of our antonomastic conflict, as if a serious decision had not to be made outside it (and before that).

I myself, would like to learn how to adopt an ethical and aesthetic way of withdrawing properly, and it's costing me more than I imagined.

Retirement consists basically of exclusion (at least when you decide to do so yourself): leaving the public square and living outside the public whirlwind. It is easier to say that what is being done, because it is not about living completely on the sidelines, at least in a village like ours, but that on the way to reaching what we would like to be, we have a majority task.

So yes, but how much, what and how? There's the problem, because accounts are rarely as white or black as those mentioned in a song known as "closing the wall."

It is not difficult to decide, for example, the fact that Bologna is kept away from the rigid, sterile and malignant formalism that it has brought to university. Giving up the tertulias of television and radio cooks is also an easy decision. But why accept the proposal to write in Argia? Can I say something serious to the reader of Argia, or vanity has made me make the decision?

In June, a former student, now my friend, came to my house and lent me everything I needed to get into the net. In the background, a blog and a Twitter account.

The title of the blog was clear from the beginning: Eza Biltzen. On the one hand, I wanted to pick up the discards before I pull them out, recover them. On the other hand, I wanted to get out of sight and start suppressing myself.

No doubt, starting to write in the Light is not the most appropriate way to begin to erase it, but let me, once and for all, apologize for the contradiction. Although I do not want to drown in the well, I cannot imagine a life without moving in the waters of Euskalgintza and popular construction. I will not make any extraordinary contribution, I will inevitably take care of my usual madness. I trust, however, that some of the readers will be happy to see what I do here about my nuts. I would therefore be happy. You, the so-called reader, are warned.