A Guest on the Earth

I have walked a lot. I don’t know if there is such a thing as “too much.” Maybe there is, when walking teaches you that you no longer need anything. I have always searched for what is essential. Today all I own weighs 9 kilos. When I was nineteen, it was 22. Walking alone through remote places, Tasmania, Central Asia, deserts and mountains, taught me silence, presence and humility.

Out there, you are a guest. Small. Naked. Honest.

The ego disappears and the world speaks.

When I return to modern society, I feel the lie. We believe we are important, but compared to nature’s vastness, we are nothing. And when I see mountains cut by machines, rivers poisoned, valleys covered in asphalt. I feel shame, not from hate but from love.

Walking is not escape for me. It is return. Return to truth.

I feel trapped between two worlds: too awake for illusion, too human to live forever away. This sadness is not trauma or depression. It is nostalgia for truth.

I have seen other ways of living among Indigenous peoples and desert communities: not perfect but rooted in respect, reciprocity and real belonging. Our modern “contract” is broken.

We have comfort but no meaning.

I don’t walk to forget. I walk to remember. I am not searching for a family given to me. I want to build a real community. Maybe the sadness you see is simply this: I have not found it yet.