I remember the crossing at Cauquenes in late September. The water was white and loud, rushing over stones that seemed to shift beneath us. I held my breath, gripping the reins until my knuckles turned white, yet the world blurred into a single grey roar. My head felt as if it were filled with water itself; I could not tell if we had advanced or if we were merely being carried by the current. For ten minutes, time ceased to exist. When we finally reached the other side, shaking and wet, I felt a profound humility before the sheer indifference of nature.

To you who read these words, I ask that you feel the same loss of control. Do not seek safety in your own certainty when the river rises or the bridge gives way. Stand on the bank and watch the water until you are as confused as I was, until you admit that your senses can be deceived by the fury of the world. Let this moment teach you that true observation requires a quiet mind, for only then can you see the truth hidden beneath the chaos.