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From the series "Shangri-La of nirvana"
Let's walk on the path of the eastern people of the Himalayas, in the country of the Sherpas. Here, at 4578 meters (15000 feet), the land is not really truly positively hospitable. You can weigh up the pros and cons (mainly the great vistas on the Everest and the bitter cold bites of the slightest draught), you find yourself quickly heating your hands side by side with your soaked yak wool socks on a rusty cast-iron stove, dreaming about palm trees. That's a fact. But you're a passer-by, a witness with no more power than a blue beret. You're here just to feel under your skin the print of the world, for the experiences to carve your thoughts; you're here to feel the land of others, the homeland of the few. You open your eyes and understand, before any musing, that to live is not so much a natural gift than a talent to acquire. The majority of the souls are here to survive. You breathe the strengths of women, men, children, all shepherds on a soil so lean that the pygmy wild grasses stay puny until the first snows come to froze the dirt. Meanwhile, life goes on and so do you, away, under a blanket in a sweet home. Feel lucky, and be happy without remorse to be lucky.

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