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Countless times I sat down to think about when I was going to write the story of my travels with a backpack on my back. Although all the experiences remain only for those who have gone through them, and that is the only thing that matters, I was worried about the day my memory would fail and those fleeting moments would dissipate from my consciousness. Once, twice, three... and more times I sat in front of my computer waiting for the ideas and memories to come to my mind. Year after year went by, but the only thing I managed to do was to become more and more disappointed with the impotence of wanting to and not being able to. Why was it so difficult to concentrate? -I wondered. It was simply a matter of sorting out my memories and transcribing them. However, I was puzzled by the fact that I did not know what prevented me from materializing what I had lived. Could it be, perhaps, the fear of every human being to externalize his thoughts and way of being? The fear of being exposed to the criticism of a friend, acquaintance, or of his most intimate relatives? The worry about what people will say...? Well, today, in the middle of my life, without intending to, without calling any muse and without even thinking about it, I tell the chronicle that I am writing here.