You arrive in the surroundings of the Leh monastery, in the Ladakhi Himalayas. The air is fresh by this morning at 4300m [14000 ft]. The motorbike, a royal Enfield 500cc, the only one able to cross the earlier pass at 5500 m [18000 ft], is on its stand, a few hundreds meters from here. Nobody around. Not even a bird. You stop here because you wanted. No other necessity. No parking, just the side of the road. The asphalt is dusty by lack of tires to sweep the bitumen alley. Just some temperamental yaks, sometimes, charge the crows and raise clouds of mountains' crumbs around their tails. On the back of some Garuda appear without warning the clouds, heavy and threatening the silence in the valley. To look at them is to glance, before, at the vanguard position of men praying for peace, for a common joy. And suddenly, your eyes are wings, dragged up by the low pressure. The call of the void. You're free to be, to cry; your hands to flap, you lips to smile; and you walk on a land that nobody owns. Come rain come shine, you're the captain of the ship, going right into the tempest whatever the sermons, despite the tears. You go ahead and don't look back. Freedom in your hands; let them in your pockets if you wish. The perception to live for yourself is stunning. By a simple wish, you are where you want to be, by a dream taking shape, all by magic. This enchantment, when you aware of it, is the first step toward the freedom. The second is a pure indescribable sensation.