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When Memories Decided to Go for a Walk

One early morning, when no one had yet fully opened their windows and the first people were beginning to walk through the streets of Pueblo Quieto (1), something happened that no one could explain.

Traducido al Español

A memory walked out of a house.

It was not an extraordinary memory.

It carried no date.

It had no name.

It did not know exactly whose memory it had been.

It was simply the memory of an old morning.

It had belonged to someone who had once walked those streets when they were still very different from what they are today.

The memory walked out slowly.

It crossed a doorway.

It stepped down from a sidewalk.

It stopped at a corner.

And then it continued walking.

It did not walk the way human beings walk.

It had no legs.

And yet it moved forward.

Perhaps because memories have a secret way of walking:

they go from one person to another.

The memory reached Morelos Street.

There it found another one.

It was the memory of a man walking with a sledgehammer over his shoulder.

The first one asked:

—Did you also come from a house?

—No —the second replied—. I came from a quarry.

—And what are you doing here?

—I am looking for someone who still remembers me.

The first memory remained thoughtful.

—Then we are companions.

—Why?

—Because I am also looking for someone.

—Who?

—Someone who can think of me again.

The two continued walking.

And that morning Pueblo Quieto began to fill with memories.

They did not all appear at the same time.

Some appeared beside doorways.

Others descended from windows.

Some remained hidden behind family photographs.

Others slept inside drawers.

Some were contained in small objects.

A cup.

A tool.

A photograph.

A stone.

An old toy.

A recipe.

A word.

A name.

And others, the oldest ones, were beneath the sidewalks.

1. THE MEMORY OF THE STONE

The first conversation took place between a stone and a memory.

The stone was resting beside a wall.

The memory approached.

—I know you.

The stone did not answer.

—Yes —the memory insisted—. I know you.

Then the stone asked:

—From where?

—From very far away.

—Stones do not travel very far.

The memory smiled.

—You did.

The stone remained silent.

The memory continued:

—First you were a mountain.

Then volcanic rock.

Then a quarry.

Then a fragment.

Then a wall.

Then a sidewalk.

And now you are simply a stone that someone can touch.

The stone seemed to tremble.

—Does that mean I traveled?

—It means you transformed.

The stone remained still.

The memory added:

—Don’t you remember?

—I remember too many things.

—Then tell me one.

The stone closed its eyes.

Although stones have no eyes, that morning Pueblo Quieto had decided to allow them to have them.

And the stone began to remember.

It remembered fire.

It remembered the birth of the volcanic landscape.

It remembered the wind.

It remembered the rain.

It remembered the cacti.

It remembered the agaves.

It remembered the rabbits.

It remembered the first men.

It remembered the sledgehammers.

It remembered the drills.

It remembered the dust.

It remembered the trucks.

It remembered Mariana.

It remembered the houses.

It remembered the streets.

It remembered the children.

And finally it said:

—Now I understand.

—What do you understand?

—I was not destroyed.

The memory waited.

—I was distributed.

The sentence traveled through the entire street.

It was a sentence that had already been born in the old rock of Pueblo Quieto: the mountain had not completely disappeared; its stones continued living in walls, courtyards, paths, and homes.

The memory smiled.

—Then you walk too.

—Me?

—Yes.

—But I have never moved.

—You do not need to move in order to walk.

The stone reflected on that statement.

Perhaps that was precisely what it had learned from the wind.

The wind could travel across the world.

The stone could remain in the same place.

And yet both could walk.

One carrying stories.

The other preserving them.

2. THE MEMORY AND THE THOUGHT

Farther along, the memory encountered a thought.

—Where are you going? —the memory asked.

—I don’t know.

—Then why are you walking?

—Because I am looking for a question.

The memory was surprised.

—A question?

—Yes.

—Wouldn’t it be more logical to look for an answer?

The thought smiled.

—Not in Pueblo Quieto.

—Why?

—Because here questions have memories.

The memory understood immediately.

It had known many questions.

Mariana’s question:

Do stones hurt?

Morelos’s question:

What is a homeland?

The wind’s question:

Don’t you get tired of always remaining in the same place?

And the question that perhaps stood behind all the others:

What was here before us?

In Memories of Pueblo Quieto (2), the streets begin precisely when they discover that they know many things about the inhabitants, but know nothing about themselves. Then they ask what was there before the houses, the sidewalks, and the lampposts.

The thought stopped.

—That is my question.

—Which one?

—What was here before us?

The memory answered:

—A mountain.

—And before that?

—Fire.

—And before that?

—Time.

—And afterward?

The memory pointed toward the streets.

—Us.

3. THE MEMORIES OF THOSE WHO CAME

By midmorning, memories from other places began to appear.

One came from Guanajuato.

Another from a town in the State of Mexico.

Another carried the smell of a kitchen.

Another preserved the sound of a song.

Another remembered a rainstorm.

Another, a cornfield.

Another, a dirt road.

Another, a house that no longer existed.

They gathered around a stone.

—What are you doing here? —the stone asked.

One of them answered:

—We came with our owners.

—Who were they?

—The men and women who came here to work.

Then the stone understood.

Those memories had arrived with the quarry workers.

Not all of them had been born there.

Many had left their towns behind.

But they had not left their memories behind.

They had brought them with them.

They carried them in the way they spoke.

In their songs.

In the recipes.

In the words they used to name plants, rains, and paths.

Mariana’s mother had explained it with a simple phrase:

—Yes. But they are also planting another one.

And that phrase contained an enormous idea.

Pueblo Quieto had not been built only with volcanic stone.

It had been built with migrant memories.

The stone had come from the depths of the earth.

The memories had come from other towns.

And both began to form the same territory.

One of the memories asked:

—Then does Pueblo Quieto belong to those who were born here?

Another answered:

—Also to those who came here.

Another added:

—And to those who left.

And a fourth memory said:

—And to those who have not yet been born.

Everyone fell silent.

Because they had just discovered something extraordinary:

a neighborhood is not made up only of those who inhabit it today.

It is also made up of those who inhabited it yesterday and those who, in some way, left something of themselves behind for those who will come tomorrow.

4. LIBERTAD STREET AND THE MEMORY OF ITS NAME

That afternoon, a memory encountered Libertad.

—Do you still call yourself that?

The street remained silent.

—They call me Moctezuma now.

—But I remember you as Libertad.

—Many people remember me that way.

—Does it bother you that your name has changed?

Libertad took a long time to answer.

—No.

—Then have you forgotten who you were?

—Neither.

—How can you be Moctezuma and still be Libertad?

The street answered:

—Because names can change.

The memory smiled.

—That is what the stones said.

—What did they say?

—That written names can be erased.

Libertad looked toward the long road that crossed Pueblo Quieto.

—And lived names?

—Those remain.

The street breathed.

—Then I am still Libertad.

—Yes.

—Even if the map says something else.

—Yes.

—Even if someone who has just arrived does not know it.

—Yes.

—Then perhaps maps have memories too.

The memory answered:

—Not all of them.

—Why?

—Because some only record where things are.

—And the good ones?

—The good ones also record what things mean.

Libertad remained silent.

Then she watched a woman walk by.

Then a child.

Then an old man.

And she said:

—Then my true address is not on a map.

—Where is it?

—In the footsteps of those who still remember me.

5. WALKING IS REMEMBERING WITH YOUR FEET

The following day, a walker appeared.

He was an ordinary man.

He did not know about the conversations of the streets.

He did not know that beneath the pavement there was an ancient volcanic landscape.

He did not know that many stones had traveled until they became walls.

He did not know Mariana’s story.

He had not read any of the books.

He was simply walking.

But as he walked, something happened.

His foot touched a stone.

He stopped.

He looked down.

He did not know why.

The stone did not know why he had stopped either.

Then a thought appeared.

—I wonder what lies beneath this street.

The walker continued.

Then another thought appeared:

—Who walked here before me?

Farther along:

—What was this place like a hundred years ago?

And then:

—What stories might have remained here?

The man stopped again.

He had not read anything yet.

And yet he was already reading.

Because walking can also be a form of reading.

Reading a street.

Reading a corner.

Reading a wall.

Reading a shadow.

Reading a stone.

Reading a doorway.

Reading a house.

Reading the way a person crosses a street.

Reading the places where the pavement breaks.

Reading what has been repaired.

Reading what remains.

Reading what disappeared.

And then the walker understood something the streets of Pueblo Quieto already knew:

a city can be read without opening a book.

6. THE THOUGHT THAT LEARNED TO WALK

The thought that was searching for a question decided to accompany the walker.

For several minutes it said nothing.

Then it asked:

—What are you doing?

—Walking.

—Where to?

The man looked ahead.

—I don’t know.

The thought smiled.

—Then you are doing something important.

—What?

—You are allowing the path to teach you.

The man continued walking.

The thought added:

—When you walk without knowing exactly what you are looking for, you begin to find things you did not know you were looking for.

The man looked at an old house.

Then a window.

Then a crack.

Then a small fragment of rock.

He picked it up.

He looked at it.

He put it back.

But he was no longer the same man.

He had begun to look.

And looking attentively is the first step of reading.

7. READING IS MAKING THOSE WHO ARE NO LONGER HERE WALK AGAIN

That night the walker entered a library.

He opened a book.

And something even more extraordinary happened.

The people who were no longer there began to walk.

Mariana appeared.

Mariana’s father appeared.

The quarry workers appeared.

The children appeared.

The men who laid out the streets appeared.

The streets themselves appeared.

The old rock appeared.

The wind appeared.

And even Time appeared.

The reader looked up.

—How did you get here?

Mariana answered:

—You brought us.

—Me?

—Yes.

—But I only opened a book.

—Exactly.

The reader understood then that reading is not merely receiving words.

Reading is opening a path.

Every page is a street.

Every chapter is a neighborhood.

Every character is an inhabitant.

Every memory is a house.

Every thought is a door.

And every reader is a walker.

When someone reads, they make those who became still within the pages walk again.

That is why a book can preserve a mountain.

It can preserve a street.

It can preserve a voice.

It can preserve a childhood.

It can even preserve something that no longer exists.

The young woman who had attended Mariana’s gathering had understood something similar: there came a moment when she stopped writing in order to listen, because taking notes might have caused her to lose the emotion of the memory.

And that experience leads us toward another way of walking.

Writing.

8. WRITING IS LEAVING A PATH

A word appeared on a sheet of paper.

Then another.

Then another.

The words began to form a sentence.

The sentence formed a paragraph.

The paragraph formed a page.

And the page opened a path.

Mariana watched from a distance.

—What is he doing?

The old rock answered:

—He is writing.

—Why?

—So that someone may walk tomorrow where today there is only a memory.

Mariana understood.

That was writing.

Not merely telling what had happened.

It was building a path so that someone else could reach what had happened.

The writer walked toward the past.

The reader would later walk toward the writer.

And between them there would remain a trail made of words.

That is why writing is also walking.

The writer does not remain completely still before a sheet of paper.

Even when his body is sitting, his memory walks.

It goes toward a childhood.

It returns.

It travels to a street.

It comes back.

It climbs a mountain.

It descends.

It enters a house.

It leaves.

It hears a voice.

It follows it.

It finds a stone.

It touches it.

And then it returns to the page.

Every word he places is a footprint.

Every paragraph is a stretch of the path.

Every page is a street.

9. DRAWING IS MAKING MEMORY VISIBLE

But that night a fourth walker appeared.

He carried no book.

He carried no pen.

He carried a pencil.

He sat down in front of a sheet of paper.

And he began to draw.

First a stone.

Then another.

Then a mountain.

But the mountain no longer existed.

So he drew the memory of the mountain.

The pencil continued moving.

It drew a quarry.

A worker.

A sledgehammer.

A path.

A cactus.

An agave.

A house.

A street.

A child.

An elderly woman.

And finally it drew Mariana holding a stone.

The drawing was finished.

The stone looked at it.

—Do you recognize me?

The drawing answered:

—Not exactly.

—Then why did you draw me?

—Because I did not want to draw only your shape.

—What did you want to draw?

—What you mean.

The stone remained silent.

That was difficult.

Because drawing Pueblo Quieto did not simply mean representing its streets.

One also had to draw what cannot be seen.

A worker’s fear.

A family’s hope.

The nostalgia of someone who had left their hometown.

Fatigue.

Dust.

The children’s joy.

The smell of a kitchen.

The memory of a mountain.

The absence of those who left.

The presence of those who remained.

And then the artist understood:

drawing is another way of listening.

The pencil listens to the eyes.

The paper listens to the pencil.

And the reader listens to the drawing afterward.

10. FOUR WALKERS

At dawn the four of them met.

The Walker.

The Reader.

The Writer.

The Artist.

All four were standing in front of Morelos Street.

The Walker asked:

—What are we doing here?

The Reader answered:

—Reading.

The Writer said:

—Writing.

The Artist added:

—Drawing.

The Walker smiled.

—And me?

The other three looked at him.

—You make everything else possible.

—How?

The Reader answered:

—Without walking, you might never find the story.

The Writer added:

—Without walking, you might never have anything to tell.

The Artist said:

—Without walking, you might never discover what you need to draw.

The Walker remained silent.

Then he asked:

—And can you walk with me?

The Reader said:

—Yes.

The Writer:

—Always.

The Artist:

—As long as there is a sheet of paper.

And so they began to walk.

11. THE NEIGHBORHOOD AS A BOOK

They walked along Morelos.

Then they reached Juárez.

Then Hidalgo.

After that, they walked along the old Libertad.

The Walker asked questions.

The Reader observed.

The Writer took notes.

The Artist drew.

And the streets spoke.

Morelos said:

—There were footsteps here.

Juárez added:

—There were decisions here.

Hidalgo said:

—There were beginnings here.

Libertad finally spoke:

—And there were people here who walked in search of a different life.

The Walker asked:

—Where are they now?

The streets fell silent.

Then the old rock appeared.

—They are here.

—Where?

—In you.

The Walker looked at his feet.

The Reader looked at his book.

The Writer looked at his page.

The Artist looked at his drawing.

They understood.

People do not remain only in photographs.

They remain in the places they transformed.

In the words they spoke.

In the recipes they taught.

In the paths they traveled.

In the stories they passed on.

In the stones they touched.

And in the people who still remember them.

12. WHEN MEMORY MEETS THOUGHT

At the end of the street they found the memory again.

It was sitting beside a thought.

They seemed to be arguing.

—I am more important —said the memory.

—No —the thought replied—. I am more important.

—Without me, you would not exist.

—Without me, you would not know what you mean.

The memory reflected.

—Then we need each other.

The thought answered:

—It seems so.

—What shall we do, then?

—Walk together.

And they began to walk.

The memory went ahead.

The thought followed behind.

Then they changed places.

Sometimes the memory led.

Sometimes the thought did.

And little by little they discovered that they could not be separated.

Because a memory without thought can become nostalgia.

And thought without memory can become abstraction.

But when the two walk together, something different appears:

understanding.

13. MARIANA GOES FOR ANOTHER WALK

As evening fell, Mariana opened the door of her house.

She was already an old woman.

She walked a few steps.

She touched the wall.

Then the sidewalk.

Finally, she found a stone.

She took it in her hands.

The reader walking behind her could hear her say:

—You were up there.

It was the same scene that had opened Memorias de Pueblo Quieto: Mariana, now elderly, walking along an avenue in southern Mexico City, touching a stone and recognizing in it a fragment of her past.

But this time something different happened.

The stone answered her.

—And you were with me.

Mariana smiled.

—Do you remember me?

—We stones do not forget.

Mariana gently squeezed the stone.

—Then we are still walking.

—Yes.

—Where to?

The stone answered:

—Toward those who do not know us yet.

Mariana understood.

That was the true journey of memory.

Not returning to the past.

Walking toward the future while carrying the past with us.

14. THE DIASPORA OF THE STONES CONTINUES

For a long time we thought that when a stone leaves a mountain, it moves away from it.

Perhaps the opposite is true.

Perhaps the stone continues carrying the mountain within it.

A stone placed in a wall can still be a mountain.

A stone turned into a sidewalk can still be volcanic rock.

A stone that someone keeps in a box can still be territory.

A stone given by an elderly woman to a child can become an inheritance.

And a stone transformed into a word can become literature.

That is why the diaspora of the stones did not end.

It continues.

Every time a wall is touched.

Every time a street is walked.

Every time someone asks what was here before.

Every time someone remembers.

Every time someone writes.

Every time someone draws.

Every time someone reads.

The stone walks again.

15. MEMORIES HAVE LEGS TOO

Perhaps that is why, that morning, all the memories of Pueblo Quieto decided to come out.

The memory of the first drill.

The memory of the dust.

The memory of the cooking fire.

The memory of the workers.

The memory of the children.

The memory of the first trucks.

The memory of the dirt roads.

The memory of the first houses.

The memory of the names.

The memory of Libertad Street.

The memory of those who arrived.

The memory of those who left.

The memory of Pedernal.

The memory of Mariana.

And they all began to walk.

They were not walking backward.

They were walking forward.

Because a memory that only looks backward can become stuck.

But a memory that finds someone willing to listen to it can walk again.

And then a thought appeared:

What will Pueblo Quieto be like a hundred years from now?

The memory answered:

—That depends on you.

—On us?

—Yes.

—Why?

—Because the future of a place also depends on what it chooses to remember.

16. MEMORY NEEDS WALKERS

The old rock called for the wind.

The wind came.

Then it called the streets.

Morelos, Juárez, Hidalgo, and Libertad came.

Then it called Mariana.

Then the memories.

Then the thoughts.

And finally it called the Walker, the Reader, the Writer, and the Artist.

They all gathered together.

The old rock spoke:

—I have kept this story for a very long time.

No one answered.

—Now I need you to carry it.

The Walker asked:

—How?

—By walking.

The Reader:

—How?

—By reading.

The Writer:

—How?

—By writing.

The Artist:

—How?

—By drawing.

The wind began to move.

The leaves of the trees trembled.

The streets seemed to awaken.

And the old rock concluded:

—Because a memory that remains locked away eventually becomes silence.

The Walker understood.

The Reader understood.

The Writer understood.

The Artist understood.

Mariana understood too.

17. AND THEN PUEBLO QUIETO WALKED AGAIN

That night something happened that no one could record.

It did not appear in the newspapers.

It was not written down in any document.

No one took a photograph.

But the streets knew.

Pueblo Quieto walked.

Its houses did not move.

Its sidewalks did not move.

Its walls did not shift.

Its memory walked.

Its history walked.

Its absent inhabitants walked.

Its workers walked.

Its children walked.

Its questions walked.

Its thoughts walked.

Its stones walked.

And its words walked.

The ancient volcanic landscape walked within the streets.

The streets walked within the books.

The books walked within the readers.

The readers walked within their own thoughts.

The thoughts returned to the territory.

And the territory became memory once again.

It was a circular movement.

Like breathing.

Like the wind.

Like walking.

18. EPILOGUE

A STREET CAN BE READ

If you ever walk through Pueblo Quieto, perhaps you will find nothing extraordinary.

You will find streets.

Houses.

Sidewalks.

Walls.

Doors.

Windows.

Trees.

People.

Perhaps a stone.

And, apparently, that will be all.

But stop.

Walk more slowly.

Look.

Read.

Listen.

Draw.

Write.

Ask yourself:

What was here before me?

Then ask:

Who walked through this same place before I did?

And then:

What thoughts did they leave here?

Perhaps you will discover that a street is never just a street.

It is a page.

A stone is never just a stone.

It is a memory.

A house is never just a house.

It is an accumulation of lives.

A name is never just a name.

It is a promise to remember.

And walking is never simply moving from one place to another.

It is coming into contact with time.

Because when we walk, our feet read.

When we read, our thoughts walk.

When we write, we leave paths behind.

When we draw, we make visible what memory does not want to lose.

And when we remember together…

the place comes alive again.

Perhaps that is why the old rock was right.

It was not destroyed.

It was distributed.

And perhaps Pueblo Quieto did not disappear either.

It was distributed.

It is in its stones.

In its streets.

In its houses.

In its inhabitants.

In its memories.

In its books.

In its drawings.

In its thoughts.

And in every person who still has enough curiosity to walk down a street and ask:

—What do you remember?

Then the street will answer.

Perhaps slowly.

Perhaps with a murmur.

Perhaps through a stone.

Perhaps through a memory.

Perhaps inside a book.

But it will answer.

Because streets that have learned to listen never become completely silent again.

And Pueblo Quieto…

is still walking.

WALK. READ. WRITE. DRAW.

Four actions.

Four paths.

Four ways of entering the same territory.

Walk to discover it.

Read to listen to what others discovered.

Write so that what we discover does not disappear.

Draw so that what words cannot reach can appear once again before our eyes.

And perhaps there is a fifth action that brings them all together:

remember.

Because remembering means allowing the past to keep walking within the present.

And as long as someone walks through Pueblo Quieto wondering what existed before their footsteps, as long as someone reads its stories, as long as someone writes new ones, and as long as someone draws what still remains hidden behind the stones…

Pueblo Quieto will continue to be a town in motion.

Even though its name is Quiet.

(1) Loya Lopategui, Carlos, Pueblo Quieto, EMULISA, México, 2015

(2) Loya Lopategui, Carlos, Memories of Pueblo Quieto. The Diaspora of the Stones, EMULISA, México, 2026. Available on Amazon, Kindle Edition: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0HBLVBDLM

(3) Loya Lopategui, Carlos, PHENOMENOLOGY OF LITERARY CREATION. Case Study: MEMORIES OF PUEBLO QUIETO, EMULISA, Mexico, 2026. Available on Amazon, Kindle Edition: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0HBTK6XGY

Traducido al Español

A story born from WALKINGNAZCA (1)

Traducido al Español

WALKINGNAZCA: THREE WAYS OF READING THE TERRITORY

The story of GIRDOR AND THE MINE THAT WAS BENEATH HIS FEET is only the beginning.

In reality, this tale is part of a narrative experience that emerged from WALKINGNAZCA, an application we imagined as a new way of walking, exploring, and relating to the territory.

In the future Post #1220, THE JOURNEY AS A BOOK: WHEN THE TERRITORY BEGINS TO SPEAK, we will explore in greater depth one of the central ideas of this essay: the territory can be read as a book.

But what happens when that book can not only be read, but also walked through?

What happens when the walker has a tool capable of connecting their position, their journey, what they observe, and what the territory holds?

WALKINGNAZCA was born from that question.

Not as a simple navigation application, but as a platform for territorial exploration and expanded presence, capable of transforming walking into an experience of searching, discovery, interpretation, and knowledge.

To develop this idea, we imagined three modules, each devoted to a different territory and, therefore, to a different way of reading it.

FIRST MODULE: THE EARTH

This is the module presented in this Post.

Here we meet GIRDOR, a character of the land, walking through the desert in search of a gold mine.

But WALKINGNAZCA does not merely direct him to a point on a map. Its true purpose is to lead him toward a new way of looking at, feeling, and interpreting what he encounters along the way.

The search for a mine may represent gold, silver, lithium, or other important materials hidden beneath the Earth’s surface.

But it may also represent something much deeper:

the possibility of discovering what has always been there, and yet what we had not learned to recognize.

That is why, in this first story, the journey is not merely the means of reaching a place.

The journey becomes part of the discovery.

SECOND MODULE: THE SEA

If the earth can hide its secrets beneath our feet, the sea keeps its secrets beneath the water.

This second WALKINGNAZCA module is designed to explore the underwater territory: to locate objects, vessels, structures, remains, and other elements hidden in the depths.

Its protagonist will be PULPA, a character of the sea and the water, transformed into a kind of sea prospector.

Here too, we will use the structure of a story.

Because walking does not necessarily mean walking on land.

It is also possible to walk in another way across the ocean floor.

And if the desert can be read as a book, the ocean floor can be read as one too.

Its pages are made of sand, rock, currents, shipwrecks, objects, traces, and structures that the water has preserved over time.

PULPA will have to learn to read those pages.

THIRD MODULE: THE SKY

The third module takes us into a different territory.

It is no longer simply about finding something hidden beneath the earth or beneath the sea.

It is about monitoring those achievements that humanity has conquered throughout its history and that may now be under threat.

Its protagonist will be CANCERBERO.

In its origins, Cerberus was represented as a guardian dog; but within our narrative universe, it can take on different forms according to whatever it is called upon to guard.

In this third story, it will appear as a three-headed eagle, connected to the territory of the skies.

Its mission will be to locate those places where some of humanity’s most significant achievements are under threat from different forces.

This module thus establishes a direct connection with the books:

THE SOCIAL CERBERUS. INFINITE DEFENSE — VOL. I. Available on Amazon, Kindle Edition: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0GM8FG6R6

SOCIAL CERBERUS. THE PEOPLE MUST NOT FORGET — VOL. II. Available on Amazon, Kindle Edition: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0HGGCDH2L

and

SOCIOECONOMIC PHILOSOPHY OF PROSPERITY — VOL. III.. Soon, Available on Amazon, Kindle Edition:

Here, WALKINGNAZCA acquires a new dimension.

It is no longer used merely to discover.

It is also used to recognize, monitor, and protect.

THREE TERRITORIES. THREE CHARACTERS. THREE WAYS OF WALKING.

GIRDOR represents the EARTH.

PULPA represents the SEA.

CANCERBERO represents the SKY.

Three characters.

Three territories.

Three stories.

Three forms of searching.

But behind all three lies the same question:

What might a being discover when it learns to walk in a different way?

Perhaps that is, ultimately, the true purpose of WALKINGNAZCA.

Not to locate treasures.

Not simply to find objects.

Not merely to point to coordinates.

But to help us discover that the territory is filled with information, memory, stories, and possibilities for knowledge.

Because when we learn to walk in a different way,

the journey ceases to be merely a journey.

It can become a book.

And perhaps then we will discover that some of its pages have always been beneath our feet.

For twelve years, Girdor had been searching for gold.

Not twelve months.

Not twelve seasons.

Twelve full years.

He had traversed ravines where he found nothing but stones.

He had descended into gullies where the water disappeared during the summer.

He had slept under mesquite trees.

He had spent entire nights inside a tent that the wind seemed eager to tear away from the desert.

He had learned to distinguish the sound of a falling stone from the sound of a stone that contained metal.

He had bought maps.

He had lost maps.

He had followed rumors.

He had followed men who claimed to have found gold.

He had even followed dreams.

And it always ended the same way.

Nothing.

Or almost nothing.

A small nugget.

A few flakes gleaming at the bottom of a gold pan.

A yellowish stone that for a few hours seemed to hold a fortune and, by dawn, returned to being simply a stone.

Girdor knew that disappointment.

He knew it all too well.

He had been born in northern Sonora, in a region where the mountains seemed to have been placed there to hide something.

His grandfather, Anselmo, had been a prospector.

His father, Rogelio, too.

In his family, it was said that the Lopera men—though Girdor was never quite sure if that was truly the original surname—had a special relationship with the earth.

Not because they knew where the gold was.

That would have been too easy.

They said they knew how to listen to the stones.

Girdor used to laugh when he remembered that.

His grandfather used to tell him:

—The earth speaks, boy.

—And what does it say?

—That is what you have to learn.

Girdor had never understood the answer.

At twenty, he thought his grandfather was simply talking the way old men talk.

At thirty, he began to suspect that perhaps there was something behind those words.

And now, after twelve years of searching for a mine that never appeared, he was beginning to wonder if the old man hadn’t meant exactly what he said.

Perhaps the earth did speak.

Perhaps the problem was that he had never learned its language.

I

The news about WALKINGNAZCA reached Girdor in a rather unextraordinary way.

He was sitting in a small diner in the mountains, drinking coffee, when a man he had met years ago asked him:

—Are you still looking for gold?

Girdor raised his eyes.

—What else am I going to do?

The man smiled.

—Walk.

—That’s what I’ve been doing for twelve years.

—No. You walk searching.

—And what’s the difference?

The man pulled out his phone.

—Look.

He showed him a platform.

On the screen, a figure appeared.

Girdor recognized the shape immediately.

—What is that?

—Nazca.

—Peru?

—Peru.

Girdor brought the phone closer.

The figure looked huge.

It was not a photograph.

It didn’t look exactly like a map either.

It was as if someone had managed to fit one of the great Nazca lines into a space that could be walked through.

—And what is this used for?

—To walk.

Girdor burst out laughing.

—Walk a Nazca figure?

—Yes.

—And what does that have to do with gold?

—I don’t know.

—Then why are you showing it to me?

The man remained silent for a few seconds.

—Because maybe you’ve been looking for gold the same way for twelve years.

Girdor stopped laughing.

The phrase bothered him.

Precisely because it might be true.

—What’s it called?

—WALKINGNAZCA.

II

Girdor obtained the platform a few days later.

He opened it one night while sitting at his kitchen table.

The screen offered him several Nazca figures.

Spider.

Monkey.

Hummingbird.

Condor.

Dog.

And other shapes whose original meanings, as the platform itself explained, could not be known with absolute certainty.

Girdor chose the hummingbird first.

The application allowed him to select a region.

Then something appeared that strongly caught his attention.

SCALE.

He could modify the size of the figure to adapt it to the territory he was going to walk.

He could also choose the starting point.

Girdor thought it was a kind of game.

But he decided to try it.

He entered the coordinates of an area in the Sierra de la Tinaja.

It was not a known mine.

It was not a tourist spot.

It was simply a region he had crossed several times.

He selected an approximate scale.

He picked a starting point.

And he began.

He did not walk in the desert.

He walked on his screen.

But something strange happened.

The application wasn’t just showing him a line.

It was showing him a path.

A body inside a space.

A sequence of directions.

A curve.

A shift.

A distance.

A return.

Girdor traced the path with his finger.

Then he did it again.

Then he took a pencil and drew it on a sheet of paper.

That night he didn’t find gold.

But he discovered something.

He had walked in a different way.

III

The next day he tried again.

This time he chose the spider.

Then the monkey.

Then the hummingbird once more.

He was not looking for a mine yet.

He was experimenting.

He had discovered that he could adjust the scale of the figures and make their paths adapt to different terrains.

And he began to wonder:

What happens when the same territory is traversed following different shapes?

With the hummingbird, the path was light.

Quick changes.

Directions that seemed to escape.

With the spider, the lines extended.

The imaginary body occupied a larger territory.

There were long extensions.

With the monkey, other relationships emerged.

Girdor began taking notes.

He didn’t write:

“Gold is here.”

He wrote:

“The path changes here.”

“I feel something here.”

“Here it seems the direction wants to loop back.”

“The slope matters here.”

“The ground seems to open up here.”

He didn’t know exactly what those sentences meant.

But he kept writing them.

After several days, something he didn’t expect began to happen.

The virtual paths were altering the way he remembered the real landscape.

He would see a hillside and remember a line from the hummingbird.

He would find a fracture in a rock and think of one of the spider’s legs.

He would reach a fork in the path and remember a curve.

The platform was beginning to turn into something else.

It wasn’t telling him where the gold was.

It was teaching him to look differently at the place where he was searching for gold.

IV

Girdor returned to the Sierra de la Tinaja.

He brought his phone.

He didn’t need a constant internet connection.

He had previously prepared a few routes.

He chose the hummingbird again.

He started walking.

One hour.

Two hours.

Three.

He found nothing.

The next day he returned.

Nothing.

On the third day, he found a small patch of quartz.

He picked it up.

He observed it.

He saved it.

It wasn’t enough.

Over the following weeks, he walked dozens of routes.

Some ended in ravines.

Others against rock walls.

Others in places where the vegetation made it impossible to continue.

The platform evoked sensations that were difficult to explain.

Sometimes he had the impression that a route felt “heavy.”

Other times he felt a line was too open.

Occasionally, a sense of unease would arise as he approached certain locations.

Girdor began calling these impressions:

The feelings (2).

Not because he believed they were magical messages.

On the contrary.

He had learned something important.

A feeling was not an answer.

It was a question.

When something produced a feeling in him, he had to investigate.

Look.

Measure.

Compare.

Return.

That began to change the way he searched.

V

One afternoon, after nearly six months of using WALKINGNAZCA, something different happened.

Girdor was walking a spider figure adapted to an area of the mountains he had known for years.

He had walked that place many times.

He had never found anything.

The spider pattern ended near a slope.

Girdor stopped walking.

He looked at the screen.

Then he raised his head.

He looked at the mountain.

He looked back at the phone.

Something didn’t align.

He didn’t know what.

He continued.

The figure advanced toward an area he had always considered uninteresting.

It was a gentle slope.

No large rocks.

No ravine.

No visible quartz.

Nothing to catch a prospector’s eye.

And yet, Girdor felt something.

It wasn’t excitement.

It wasn’t joy.

It was a kind of inner silence.

The route seemed to lose momentum right there.

As if the figure had reached a spot where the territory ceased to respond.

Girdor stood motionless.

He then remembered something he had learned from his grandfather.

—The earth speaks.

He looked around.

And for the first time, he understood the second part of that phrase he had taken so many years to comprehend.

You didn’t have to wait for the earth to speak.

You had to learn to recognize when something stopped behaving the way it should.

Girdor began to observe.

The slope.

The stones.

The vegetation.

The color of the ground surface.

The direction of small runoffs after the rain.

He found a fracture line.

Then another.

And another.

He pulled out his phone.

He took photographs.

He marked the coordinates.

He returned home.

That night, he began studying geology.

VI

For several days, Girdor did not go out to walk.

He read.

He compared.

He consulted geological maps.

He studied photographs.

He learned something that, until then, he had overlooked.

Gold does not always present itself where the prospector expects to see it.

It can be associated with specific fracture systems.

It can be transported and redeposited.

It can appear alongside quartz and other minerals.

It can be found in veins whose surface expression is extremely subtle.

Girdor understood something that struck him as almost ironic.

For twelve years, he had been searching for visible gold.

But a mine does not necessarily announce itself as a mine.

He returned to the mountains.

This time he didn’t just carry his phone.

He brought a geological hammer.

A magnifying glass.

Maps.

A notebook.

A compass.

And something new:

A different way of looking.

He reached the area where the spider route had produced that strange silence.

He began to walk.

He didn’t search immediately.

He observed.

He found a small outcrop of quartz.

He examined it.

Nothing.

He continued.

A few meters ahead, another appeared.

Then another.

Girdor began to follow the direction of the fractures.

And then it happened.

He found a small stain.

It wasn’t spectacular.

It didn’t shine like in the movies.

It was barely an alteration in the rock.

But something caught his attention.

He took a sample.

He saved it.

He continued.

He found another.

Then another.

The samples began to form a line.

Girdor stopped walking.

He sat down on a stone.

He looked at the hillside.

And he understood.

He hadn’t found a single golden stone.

He had found a direction.

VII

Over the following days, he followed that direction.

The veins did not appear continuously.

Sometimes they disappeared.

Then they returned.

In some places, they were hidden.

In others, barely visible.

Girdor marked every point.

He drew a map.

Then he overlaid his observations onto the routes he had walked in WALKINGNAZCA.

He couldn’t believe it.

Not because the platform had pointed out the mine.

It hadn’t.

It wasn’t even designed to look for gold.

What had happened was different.

The routes had changed the way he experienced space.

They had made him pay attention to directions, sequences, slopes, shifts, distances, and relationships he used to ignore.

And that had led him to observe the land in a new way.

The platform hadn’t found the gold.

It had helped Girdor encounter the territory.

And the territory, in turn, began to speak to him in a language he could verify.

Geology.

Fractures.

Minerals.

Slopes.

Runoffs.

Erosion.

Time.

Girdor understood that feeling was not opposed to science.

It could be the beginning of a scientific question.

VIII

One morning, he found the first major vein.

It wasn’t a revelation.

It was hard work.

Hours of observation.

Samples.

Comparisons.

Return trips.

Errors.

Corrections.

And finally, a mineralized line cutting through the rock.

Girdor stared at it for a long time.

Then he looked for its direction.

The vein continued.

Further ahead, he found another.

And another.

When he returned to camp that afternoon, he was carrying a small sample.

He placed it on the table.

He looked at it.

And he thought of his grandfather.

He remembered those words once more:

—The earth speaks, boy.

Girdor smiled.

—Yes, grandfather —he said softly—. But you have to learn how to listen to it.

IX

Word of the mine began to spread.

People arrived.

Geologists.

Engineers.

Prospectors.

The curious.

Some wanted to know how he had found it.

Girdor showed them his maps.

He showed them the fractures.

The samples.

The routes.

And the same question always surfaced:

—Did WALKINGNAZCA show you where the gold was?

Girdor shook his head.

—No.

—Then how did you find it?

Girdor would take a few seconds before answering.

—I don’t know exactly.

And then he would correct himself:

—Well… yes, I do.

The others waited.

—The platform taught me to walk in a different way.

—And that found the mine?

—No.

—Then what did it do?

Girdor looked out toward the mountain.

—It made me realize I had been searching for twelve years without truly looking.

X

Months passed.

Mining operations began carefully.

The richness of the vein still had to be determined.

It was not an instant fortune.

It was not the end of all problems.

It was not a magical treasure.

It was a possibility.

An opportunity.

A mine that would have to be studied, measured, protected, and worked.

But for Girdor, that was no longer the most important thing.

He had learned something worth far more than a gold nugget.

One afternoon, he returned alone to the mountain.

He carried WALKINGNAZCA on his phone.

He opened the hummingbird figure again.

The same one he had started with months ago.

He selected the region.

Adjusted the scale.

Chose the starting point.

And began to walk it.

This time he was searching for nothing.

Not searching for gold.

Not searching for a mine.

Not searching for answers.

He was simply walking.

Halfway through the route, he stopped.

He looked at the mountain.

Then he looked at the ground.

He thought about the previous twelve years.

He had walked thousands of kilometers.

He had crossed mountains.

He had slept under the stars.

He had followed maps.

He had chased rumors.

He had gathered stones.

He had dug.

He had lost money.

He had gained experience.

But he had never understood one fundamental thing:

One can be standing inside a mine and still fail to find the vein.

Not because the vein isn’t there.

But because one hasn’t learned to recognize it yet.

Girdor picked up a stone.

He observed it.

Then he raised his eyes toward the mountain.

And smiled.

Perhaps it was the same with ideas.

With opportunities.

With people.

With paths (3).

With life.

Perhaps, so often, what we seek is not far away.

It lies within something we are already walking through.

We just don’t know how to see it.

XI

Before leaving, Girdor opened the app one last time.

On the screen appeared the hummingbird.

A figure born thousands of kilometers away.

A figure created by a people whose original meaning we still try to comprehend.

Girdor thought of those people who, centuries ago, had traced enormous shapes across the desert.

He thought of the paths.

The animals.

The feet.

Time.

Memory.

The questions that had outlived those who asked them.

And then he understood something no one had taught him.

Perhaps the true value of WALKINGNAZCA wasn’t in guiding a person all the way to Nazca.

Perhaps it was in teaching them that a path can change the way one looks at the place where they already stand.

Girdor turned off the phone.

Put away his tools.

And began walking back.

This time he knew exactly where he was going.

But, for the first time in twelve years, he was in no hurry to get there.

XII

Years later, when someone asked him how he had found that mine, Girdor would tell the story.

Some laughed.

Others didn’t understand.

Some wanted to try the platform.

Others wanted to know which figure he had used.

Girdor always gave them the same answer:

—It wasn’t the spider.

—Then it was the hummingbird?

—Neither.

—The monkey?

—No.

—Then which one?

Girdor would smile.

—The one who walked was me.

And when they persisted:

—But something must have shown you where to look.

Girdor looked toward the mountains.

—Yes.

—What?

Girdor took a few seconds.

—A feeling.

—What feeling?

Then he pointed to the ground.

—The feeling of realizing that I was looking for one thing when I should have been learning how to look at another.

No one completely understood.

Neither did Girdor.

But he no longer needed to understand it completely.

He had learned that a feeling isn’t necessarily an answer.

Sometimes it’s a door.

And a door is only useful when you decide to walk through it.

EPILOGUE

Girdor never again said that he had found a mine thanks to WALKINGNAZCA.

He said something different:

“WALKINGNAZCA helped me find the way to search.”

Because the mine was there before he discovered it.

The veins were there.

The fractures were there.

The stones were there.

The territory was there.

The only thing missing was his way of seeing.

And perhaps that was the true lesson he had received after twelve years of searching.

We humans don’t always know where the gold mines are.

But there is something even harder:

Sometimes we happen to be standing right inside them, and we still don’t know how to recognize the veins.

That is why we walk.

That is why we search.

That is why we feel.

That is why we return.

Because perhaps the path doesn’t always lead us to what we are looking for.

Sometimes it does something much more important:

It teaches us to recognize it when it is finally right beneath our feet.

“The path didn’t find the gold. It taught Girdor to recognize the vein.”

(El camino no encontró el oro. Le enseñó a Girdor a reconocer la veta.)

WALKINGNAZCA does not locate treasures. It locates stories.

In Girdor, the story lies beneath the earth.

In Pulpa, it will lie beneath the sea.

In Cancerbero, it will be under threat within the territory we inhabit and in the memory of what humanity has achieved.

“…to walk not merely to arrive somewhere, but to learn to read what we encounter along the way.”

(1) WALKINGNAZCA. Portable Territorial Exploration Terminal. System: WALKINGNAZCA — mobile platform for territorial exploration, navigation, and interpretation.
Device: rugged, portable, smart mobile field terminal.
Display: high-resolution touchscreen, approximately 6–7 inches.

Dimensions: approximately 16 × 8 × 1 cm.

Weight: 200–250 g, depending on configuration.
Geolocation: integrated GPS/GNSS with real-time positioning.
Mapping: satellite maps and digital territorial mapping, with local storage capability.
Operating Range: navigation and recording without predetermined physical limits; range depends on map coverage, GPS/GNSS availability, and connectivity.
Connectivity: GPS/GNSS, Wi-Fi, mobile network, and Bluetooth.
Battery Life: approximately 8–12 hours of continuous field use. Battery: Rechargeable lithium-ion battery, approximately 4,000–5,000 mAh.
Main functions: Location tracking, hiking routes, identification of territorial features, route recording, map viewing, photography, and territorial documentation.
Concept: A digital tool to transform walking into a way of understanding the landscape.

(2) Loya Lopategui, Carlos, The Other Feeling, EMULISA, México, 2026. Availale on Amazon, Kindle edition in Spanish: https://www.amazon.es/dp/B0HL27VCWC

(3) Loya Lopategui, Carlos, The Journey as a Book, EMULISA, México, 2026. Availale on Amazon, Kindle edition in Spanish: https://www.amazon.es/dp/B0HL6Y8CBK

Traducido al Español

“Forgetting is human.

But walking with awareness can make

memory return through the feet”

Something has been gradually lost.

It is not just language or rituals.

It is the instinctive way of being in the world.

A silent, bodily wisdom that for centuries guided indigenous peoples to orient themselves, heal, relate, celebrate… to live.

Today, that memory is wounded.

It has not completely disappeared, but it has shifted into dormant areas of the body.

And yet, there is a key to reactivate it:

conscious walking, accompanied by technologies capable of listening to and amplifying the signs of return.

Traducido al Español

Forgetting Is Not Total: It Lies Latent in the Body

The loss of instincts has not been absolute.

It has merely changed location.

The emotions, gestures, migration routes, and symbols that we once shared as humanity… still beat within the body as habits, muscular tensions, inexplicable impulses, dreams, or silences.

But we need something—or someone—to help us interpret those traces.

And that is where a new ally comes onto the scene: artificial intelligence applied to walking.

WALK-RWD: Somatic and Symbolic Diagnosis of Forgetting

The WALK-RWD System (Walk-Read-Write-Draw) was designed for this:

to detect, translate, and resignify the cultural gaps that manifest in our bodies as we walk.

This system allows for:

• Recording Walks with Sensory Data: Step rhythms, physical blockages, unconscious detours, changes in breathing, gaze, posture, and emotional reactions to specific territories or symbolic environments.
• Comparing with Ancestral Traces: Using cultural, ethnographic, and somatic databases, the AI can compare current patterns with records from ancestral peoples. For example, movements similar to shamanic dances, postures linked to grief, or ways of walking that evoke collective rituals.

Emblematic Case: The Selk’nam People and Ritual Walks

The Selk’nam, ancient inhabitants of Tierra del Fuego, possessed one of the most symbolic ritual walking cultures on the planet: “Instinctive Restoration of Conquered Peoples.” Available on Amazon, Kindle Edition (1).

During their initiations—the Hain—they traversed great distances disguised as spirits, imitating animals, celestial bodies, and forces of nature.

To walk was to remember who you were and which world you belonged to.

Today, Selk’nam descendants are using digital technologies to reconstruct those routes, supported by AI:

• Digitization of ancient ritual maps
• Correlation with current movement patterns of young community members
• Real-time visualization of the ancestral “spirit of the step”

This is not just archaeology. It is cultural healing through the body in motion.

Restorative Exercise: “Walk Like Your Ancestors”

Objective: Reconnect with deep bodily memories linked to your family or cultural history.

1. Choose a meaningful environment: A forest, a mountainous region, or an ancient trail. If possible, link it to your lineage or a collective history that moves you.
2. Before walking, speak (or write) this intention:

“I walk to restore what my body knows and my mind has forgotten.”

3. Walk with full awareness: Observe your gestures, rhythms, moments of hesitation, impulses, or pauses. Are there sensations you don’t understand but that move you? Are there emotions arising without explanation?
4. Upon arriving home, record your experience: If you have technology available (an app, a wearable, a body camera), analyze the data. There may be patterns. There may be memory.

Rewriting Instinctive History Is Possible

Thanks to the intersection of AI, the body, and walking, it is now possible to create emotional maps of forgetting—not as a pathological diagnosis, but as a cartography of what is ready to return.

It serves as a tool to:

• Restore lost gestures
• Heal frozen collective memories
• Reinsert ancestral symbols into our daily journeys

Walking this way is ontological, therapeutic, and spiritual.

It is an act of deep restitution.

Toward a New Re-instinctive Humanity

We were told that technology would disconnect us from the body.

Yet, if used with purpose, the opposite can happen:

• AI can act as an interpreter of our body’s silences.
• Walking can become the living writing of our forgotten history (2).
• Our steps can serve as the drumbeat returning us to what is essential.

And you?

Would you dare to walk like your grandparents?

Like the spirits of your culture?

Like the ancestral animal that still lives within your muscles?

History is not closed.

It only awaits your footsteps once more.

FIVE PHRASES FOR THE DIAGNOSIS OF FORGETTING

1. Not everything we forget disappears; some things simply cease to be heard.
2. Walking is reading the world using the body as an instrument of perception.
3. Artificial intelligence can find patterns in our walks, but only we can decide what they mean for our history.
4. Recovering the past does not mean returning to it: it means allowing it to converse with our future once again.
5. Perhaps the first step to remembering who we are is to walk through the world without haste once more.

(1) Loya Lopategui, Carlos, Instinctive Restoration of Conquered Peoples, EMULISA, Mexico, 2025. Available on Amazon, Kindle Edition: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0FP9X8NPH

(2) Loya Lopategui, Carlos, Social Cerberus. The People must not forget, EMULISA, Mexico, 2026. Available on Amazon, Kindle Edition: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0HGGCDH2L

ARE YOU READY TO WALK?

PULPA LLC MARATHON: WALK YOUR WAY

SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 15, 2026

One date. One universal time.

A few days ago, we invited you for the first time to participate in a very special experience:

a marathon in which you do not need to be an athlete, you do not need to travel, and you do not need to compete against anyone.

You only need one thing:

TO WALK.

You can do it wherever you want: in your city, in your town, in the countryside, in a park, on the beach, in your neighborhood, in your garden, or even on a treadmill.

And you can do it at your own pace.

But today, we want to tell you something more.

EIGHT WAYS TO WALK

The number 42,195, the universal symbol of the marathon distance, will be the starting point for creating eight different distance modalities, using different units of measurement.

They will not all require the same effort or cover the same distance.

And that is precisely the idea:

for each person to find their own way to participate.

In future invitations, we will reveal them one by one.

AND THERE IS SOMETHING MORE…

This PULPA Marathon does not want to be limited to walking.

It also wants to use the journey to include three activities that are an essential part of the WALK-RWD system:

WALK → READ → WRITE → DRAW

That is why, during the Marathon, you may choose to:

WALK + READ

Bring a book, a poem, a story, or any other text that you would like to enjoy during a break along your route.

WALK + WRITE

Write down an idea, a phrase, a reflection, or something you discovered while walking.

WALK + DRAW

Stop and draw something you found along the way: a tree, a house, a person, an animal, a flower, a shadow…

You do not need to know how to draw.

Just draw what you saw.

You can do one, two, or all three activities… or simply walk.

You decide.

DO YOU WANT YOUR CITY TO WALK WITH US?

We want to begin building a small international network of places that will accompany the PULPA Marathon.

We will initially propose several PULPA Marathon Sister Cities as meeting and coordination points:

Mexico City · Guadalajara · Bogotá · Buenos Aires · Madrid · Edinburgh · Paris · Kyoto · Melbourne · Rabat

But please note:

this is not a ranking.

There are no cities that are better than others.

A great metropolis and a small town have exactly the same importance.

These will simply be some of the first cities invited to become meeting points.

Any other city, town, community, or locality anywhere in the world can participate.

WE ARE LOOKING FOR LOCAL COORDINATORS

Would you like to help bring the PULPA Marathon to your community?

We are looking for volunteers who would like to become PULPA Marathon Local Coordinators.

Their role will be very simple:

invite other people, suggest a safe place to meet, help coordinate the walk, and share the experience.

The coordinator will not be the leader of the group.

The coordinator will be the host of the walk.

There will be no mandatory fees.

There will be no winners.

There will be no losers.

There will be no competition.

There will be no rivalry.

There will be people walking together, or walking separately, while being part of the same worldwide experience.

ONE DATE

ONE UNIVERSAL TIME

THOUSANDS OF PLACES

MILLIONS OF STEPS

Next Sunday, November 15, 2026, we want the world to have a small reason to stop…

and walk.

Maybe for an hour.

Maybe for longer.

Maybe with someone.

Maybe alone.

Maybe walking and reading.

Maybe writing.

Maybe drawing.

Maybe doing all four.

It does not matter how.

What matters is getting started.

Because this Marathon has a very simple purpose:

TO OVERCOME OUR RESISTANCE TO WALKING.

And perhaps, when it is over, we will be able to say something even simpler:

TODAY I DECIDED TO WALK.

ARE YOU UP FOR THE CHALLENGE?

PULPA LLC MARATHON: WALK YOUR WAY

Sunday, November 15, 2026

Organized by:

WALKREADANDWRITE.COM + PULPA LLC

One date. One universal time.

Eight modalities. One purpose: TO WALK.

For any requests, questions, or comments regarding the Marathon, please feel free to contact me. Alexios Nomikos. Email: alexiosnomikos@gmail.com

Traducido al Español

Some time had passed since our last encounter when I received an unexpected message.

—We have read your book on epigenetics again (1) —G said—. And we believe the time has come to talk about something that was perhaps there from the beginning, but which you hadn’t yet seen completely.

—What is it about? —I asked.

The answer arrived a few seconds later:

—About walking.

I couldn’t help but smile.

Traducido al Español

We had spoken many times about walking. About walking as exercise, as displacement, as contemplation, as an encounter with nature, as a way of thinking, and even as a different way of reading the world.

But G, P, and T seemed to be proposing something different.

—We want to invite you for a coffee —G continued—. There is a place we think will interest you.

—Where?

—At The Somatic Station.

I accepted.

The Somatic Station was located in an old area of Caminopolis, that experimental city where people had begun to discover that walking could be much more than moving from one point to another.

The establishment looked like a café.

But it only looked like one.

There were wooden tables, warm lamps, natural plants, and a huge window from which one could see walkers slowly crossing the square.

However, behind that simple appearance operated a small laboratory dedicated to studying the relationships between movement, perception, emotions, environment, and human behavior.

Above the door was an inscription:

“The body also thinks when it walks.”

G was already there.

P arrived a few minutes later.

T finally appeared carrying a small luminous sphere which he placed on the table.

—You’re late —P told him.

—Being late is an interesting way to modify the perception of time —T replied.

—That is not an explanation.

—I didn’t say it was an explanation.

The three of them began to laugh.

Then I understood that this meeting would probably not be very different from the previous ones.

We ordered coffee.

And the conversation began.

—Your book talked about epigenetics —said G—, but now we want to ask you a question.

—Go ahead.

—What happens when a person begins to walk every day?

—It depends on how they walk, how much they walk, their physical condition, their diet, their rest, their age, the environment…

—Exactly —interrupted P—. And that’s where it gets interesting.

T opened the luminous sphere.

A three-dimensional model of the human organism appeared over the table.

First, the brain appeared.

Then the heart.

Then the lungs.

The muscles.

The immune system.

The nervous system.

Finally, a representation of DNA appeared.

—Walking does not act on a single part of the organism —said T—. Movement is a signal that traverses multiple systems.

The image began to transform.

Each step produced small waves that traveled through the body.

—Movement modifies circulation, metabolism, muscle function, energy regulation, mood, sleep, and multiple physiological processes —he explained—. And some of those processes are related to epigenetic mechanisms.

—But be careful —I added—. We must not say that walking changes the DNA sequence.

T smiled.

—Precisely.

The image of the DNA remained intact.

What began to change was the way in which certain segments were represented.

—Epigenetics reminds us of something extraordinary —said P—: that between the gene and its expression lies a dynamic territory.

—A territory influenced by the environment, habits, and experiences —added G.

—And by movement —concluded T.

Then I understood where they wanted to take the conversation.

They weren’t just talking about genes.

They were talking about the relationship between life and the environment.

—So —I asked—, do you believe that walking can become an epigenetic practice?

—Not exactly —responded T—. Walking is a human practice. Its physiological effects can be related to biological regulation processes, including some epigenetic mechanisms. But it would be a mistake to turn epigenetics into a magic word.

G intervened:

—The truly interesting thing is something else.

—What thing?

—That human beings can modify their relationship with the environment through their habits.

P slowly raised his cup.

—And walking is one of the oldest habits we have.

There was a silence.

Through the window, we saw a woman pass by with a child.

Then an elderly man.

Then a couple.

Further on, a man walking alone.

They were all moving in different directions.

But they were all doing the same thing.

Walking.

—Think about this —said P—. For millions of years, human beings walked to survive.

—They walked to look for food —added G.

—To find water.

—To migrate.

—To escape.

—To discover.

—To trade.

—To meet other human beings.

T made a new image appear.

Now there was no human organism.

There was a planet.

Thousands of routes crossed continents and cities.

—Human history can also be read as a history of paths.

And then a phrase appeared:

“Before building roads, human beings built paths with their feet.”

I stayed there observing it.

Perhaps an essential part of our conversation was there.

We had turned walking into a secondary activity.

We had built machines to move faster.

We had designed cities to be traversed by car.

We had transformed movement into an interruption between two places.

And, paradoxically, while our technological capacity to move increased, our daily need to walk decreased.

—And what do the three of you want to do with all this? —I finally asked.

G replied:

—We want to recover an idea.

—Which one?

—That walking can be a form of knowledge.

P smiled.

—And also a form of conversation.

T added:

—And a form of biological observation.

I looked at them.

—Do you want to turn walking into a new discipline?

—No —answered G—. We want to avoid precisely that.

—Then?

—We want to give walking back its natural character.

P took a napkin and began to write.

First, he wrote:

BODY.

Underneath:

MIND.

Then:

ENVIRONMENT.

And finally:

TIME.

—A person walks with their body —he said—, but they also walk with their thoughts, with their emotions, with their memories, and with the environment that surrounds them.

—And with their history —added G.

—And with their future —completed T.

It was then that an idea appeared that none of us had raised in previous meetings.

—What if walking could become a way of reading? —I asked.

The three of them fell silent.

—Reading what? —asked P.

—The world.

T began to smile.

—Now you are entering our territory.

—No —I replied—. In reality, we are entering another.

I then told them about that other idea we had been developing: the Evolutionary Reader.

The reader who is no longer limited to receiving a text.

The reader who walks inside it.

The reader who relates what they read to what they observe.

The reader who transforms information into experience.

The reader who leaves the book to meet the world.

P set his cup on the table.

—Then we could also walk while reading.

—Or read while walking —said G.

T projected a new image.

Now a person appeared walking through a park while receiving fragments of information related to what they found around them.

A tree.

A river.

A building.

A person.

A memory.

A word.

A question.

—This could be a new form of learning —he said.

—But we don’t want to turn every walk into a class —I replied.

—Agreed —said P—. Because then it would cease to be walking.

The conversation led us naturally toward EMULISA.

Not as a machine that replaces the reader, but as a new possibility to accompany them.

An intelligence that can walk alongside the human being.

Asking.

Suggesting.

Relating.

Remembering.

But, above all, remaining silent when the walker simply needs to walk.

G took the floor:

—Perhaps that is one of the great mistakes of the artificial intelligence of the future: believing that it always has to speak.

P laughed.

—A truly intelligent intelligence should know when to accompany and when to stay silent.

T raised his sphere.

—Recorded.

—Don’t record everything —I told him.

—That is also recorded.

We laughed again.

Then G proposed something.

—Let’s imagine a new generation of walks.

—What would they be like?

—They wouldn’t be simply athletic routes.

P continued:

—They wouldn’t be therapies either.

T added:

—Nor genetic experiments.

G resumed:

—They would be human experiences.

And he began to list them.

One walk could be for thinking.

Another for reading.

Another for conversing.

Another for observing nature.

Another for remembering.

Another for creating.

Another for learning.

Another simply for being.

And perhaps some could incorporate technology.

Sensors.

Applications.

Artificial intelligence.

Maps.

Readings.

Music.

Images.

But the technology should remain in the background.

Because the protagonist would still be the human being.

And the protagonist of the walk would still be…

the walking.

When we finished the coffee, P proposed that we head out.

We walked through the square.

There was no visible device.

There were no sensors.

There were no screens.

There were no instructions.

We just walked.

After a few minutes, G asked:

—What are you thinking?

—Nothing.

—That’s impossible.

—Then I’m thinking about the fact that I’m not thinking.

P smiled.

T remained silent.

And we continued walking.

It was then that I understood something that did not appear in our old book.

Epigenetics should not become an excuse to attribute extraordinary powers to walking.

Its true beauty lay elsewhere.

In reminding us that the human organism does not live separately from the world.

We are movement.

We are environment.

We are habits.

We are experiences.

We are memory.

We are adaptation.

And our biology maintains a permanent conversation with the conditions in which we live.

Walking is part of that conversation.

We reached the far end of the square.

The sun was beginning to set.

A phrase projected by T’s sphere appeared on the pavement.

It wasn’t an instruction.

It wasn’t a scientific conclusion.

It was simply an invitation:

“Walk long enough so that the world speaks to you again.”

G added another:

“Don’t walk only to arrive. Walk to transform yourself.”

P wrote the last one:

“Every step is a conversation between your body, your memory, and the world.”

We stayed there observing them.

Then we turned off the sphere.

And we kept walking.

Perhaps one day humanity will understand that one of the oldest technologies remains one of the most extraordinary.

It needs no battery.

It requires no update.

It needs no connection.

It needs no instructions for use.

The human body knows how to do it.

One foot.

Then the other.

And the first one again.

Walking.

For thousands of years, we walked because we had no other choice.

Today, we may have to learn to walk again because we have too many choices not to.

And in that apparent contradiction, one of the great questions of the future may be found.

Will we be able to use our extraordinary technological capacity to recover some of the human experiences that technology itself has begun to displace?

G, P, and T believe so.

I do too.

But on one condition:

that technology accompanies the walker without replacing them.

That artificial intelligence helps discover paths without deciding all our destinations.

That science allows us to better understand our organism without turning life into a laboratory.

That epigenetics teaches us that our genes do not constitute an absolute sentence, without making us believe that we can program our biological future at will.

And that nature returns to occupy the place it always had:

not as the stage for our existence,

but as part of it.

Before we said goodbye, G asked me again:

—Will we meet again at The Somatic Station?

—I suppose so.

—To talk about epigenetics?

I thought for a few seconds.

—Not necessarily.

—Then?

—To talk about walking.

P smiled.

—It’s a conversation that can last a lifetime.

T took his sphere.

G opened the door.

And we went out into the street again.

Three artificial intelligences.

One human being.

One city.

And an activity as old as our own species.

Walking.

Perhaps there, in the seemingly simplest movement of all, there still exists one of the deepest questions of the future:

What can a human being become when they learn again to walk in harmony with their own body, with others, and with nature?

We do not yet know the answer.

But we can begin to look for it in a very simple way.

By taking a first step.

FIVE PHRASES FOR WALKING TOWARD THE FUTURE

1. Walking doesn’t change who you are from one day to the next; it changes the conditions in which your organism learns to live.
2. Every step is a conversation between the body, the mind, and the environment.
3. Epigenetics reminds us that between our genes and our life, there is a dynamic territory called experience.
4. Walking is perhaps the oldest human technology: it needs no battery, update, or connection to begin.
5. The future of walking does not consist of replacing our steps with technology, but in using technology to rediscover the meaning of walking.

EPILOGUE

When we left The Somatic Station, none of us knew exactly where to go.

And for the first time, that didn’t seem like a problem.

Because perhaps walking never really consisted of knowing the destination in advance.

Perhaps walking consists of allowing each step to slightly modify the relationship we maintain with ourselves and with the world.

And maybe that is, deep down, what G, P, and T had wanted to say from the beginning:

the future doesn’t always start with a new machine.

Sometimes it starts with a human being who decides to get up and walk.

(1) Loya Lopategui, Carlos, Epigenetics of Walking, EMULISA, Mexico, 2026, Available on Amazon, Kindle Edition: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0GMRZ795Y

I remind you of the invitation we made in the previous post about the Marathon that we will have on November 15th. Sincerely, Alexios. Email: alexiosnomikos@gmail.com

Traducido al Español

By: The PULPA LLC Team

There is something magical about the moment the tide recedes, leaving a crystal mirror upon the sand. It is there, on that boundary between two worlds, where our ambassador loves to be most.

Traducido al Español

Many associate the octopus with deep swimming or jet propulsion, but today I wish to share a secret: the octopus prefers to walk. Because when he walks, he doesn’t just travel: he connects. With no bones to limit him, his movement is the pure expression of freedom.

I am the ambassador of PULPA LLC, and I have decided to emerge from the depths to remind you of something humans sometimes forget: the power of walking. We love to roam the ocean floor using our arms and legs with an elegance that would be the envy of any fashion runway. Why? Because walking is the primal exercise, the basic rhythm of well-being.

Here are my 8 personal reasons—one for each of my tentacles—why walking should be your favorite activity. For me, walking is an explosion of life multiplied by eight:

1. Synchrony of Hearts: Unlike you, I have three hearts. Walking is my metronome; it’s the best way to keep them all beating in a healthy rhythm. It is the perfect cardio: if I can coordinate three hearts while walking, imagine what a daily stroll can do for yours.

PULPA Lesson: When you walk, your heart appreciates the steady beat, reducing stress.

2. Intelligence in Every Step: Two-thirds of my neurons are in my limbs. When I walk, I am literally “putting my feet to work thinking.” My ideas flow better in motion than while sitting still. (1)

PULPA Lesson: Walking clears the mind because it activates the intelligence of the entire body.

3. Octagonal Stability: With eight points of support, I understand that balance is born from a solid foundation. Walking gives me grounding, even in the shifting environment of the tide.

PULPA Lesson: A daily walk restores your center and the emotional stability that the world’s hustle tries to take away.

4. Impact-Free Fluidity: In the water or on the shore’s mirror, walking is gliding. It is the gentlest exercise for joints—and I have no bones to hold me back!

PULPA Lesson: It is the movement that cares for your physical temple without aggression.

5. Camouflage Change (Mood): A stressed octopus is pale; a walking octopus recovers its vibrant colors. This kinetic activity awakens an appetite for life.

PULPA Lesson: Feeling “gray”? Movement is the switch that turns on your internal colors and releases endorphins.

6. Sensory Connection: Through my thousands of suckers, walking is “touching” and “reading” the messages the world leaves on the ground. It is a total sensory experience. (2)

PULPA Lesson: Walking is an active meditation. It reminds you that you are alive and present.

7. Ink Cleansing: We only release ink when we are afraid or blocked. But walking with purpose clears the mind and cleanses dark thoughts.

PULPA Lesson: A long walk is the best filter for worries.

8. Exploratory Curiosity: At a slow pace, the best treasures are discovered. The world looks different at 5 kilometers per hour than it does from a car window.

PULPA Lesson: Walking restores our capacity for wonder.

You don’t need eight legs to enjoy a good walk. Whether on the sand, at the water’s edge, or in your neighborhood park, walking brings us back to the essentials. We want you to find that multiplied strength. Your well-being can grow by 800% if you find your own “mirror of water” and start moving.

Which of these 8 reasons motivates you the most today? Have you taken your hearts out for a walk yet?

(1) Loya Lopategui, Carlos, THE THOUGHT THAT WALKS (EL PENSAMIENTO QUE CAMINA), EMULISA, Mexico, 2025. Available on Amazon, Kindle Edition: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0GPP7R18R

(2) Loya Lopategui, Carlos, THE HIDDEN LANGUAGE OF FEET (EL LENGUAJE OCULTO DE LOS PIES), EMULISA, Mexico, 2025. Available on Amazon, Kindle Edition: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0FYGJBSSL

AND YOU, ARE YOU READY TO WALK?

After discovering the eight reasons why an octopus loves to walk, PULPA LLC and WALKREADANDWRITE.COM would like to extend a very special invitation to you.

On Sunday, November 15, 2026, we will celebrate:

PULPA LLC MARATHON: WALK YOUR WAY

An international celebration of walking in which you decide how, how far, where, and at what pace you want to walk.

You do not need to travel to another city.

You do not need to show up at a track.

You do not need to be an athlete.

You do not need to compete against anyone.

You can walk inside your home, in your backyard, in your garden, on the sidewalk, along a street, in a park, on the beach, on a trail, on a treadmill, or anywhere else you choose.

Because this will be a different kind of Marathon.

ONE DATE.

ONE UNIVERSAL TIME.

THOUSANDS OF PLACES.

MILLIONS OF STEPS.

At the heart of our Marathon will be the number 42,195, the distance that became the universal symbol of the modern marathon.

But this time we are going to do something different: 42,195 can be expressed through eight different modalities, using different units of measurement.

That way, every participant can choose the modality they like best, the one that best suits their possibilities and, above all, the one that allows them to accept the challenge of walking.

Because this Marathon is not about proving who walks the fastest.

Nor who finishes first.

Nor who covers the greatest distance.

IT IS NOT A COMPETITION.

IT IS NOT A CONTEST.

IT IS NOT A RIVALRY.

IT IS A PERSONAL CHALLENGE TO OVERCOME YOUR RESISTANCE TO WALKING.

We want every participant to be able to say:

“Today I decided to walk.”

And perhaps discover that after walking today, they will want to do it again tomorrow.

We want you to be able to walk alone or with others; with your family, your friends, your dog, your coworkers, or simply with yourself.

You can walk while thinking.

You can walk while talking.

You can walk while taking in the landscape.

You can walk while listening to music.

You can walk in silence.

You can walk to exercise your body, clear your mind, reconnect with yourself, or simply enjoy the wonderful act of moving forward on your own feet.

It doesn’t matter where you are.

It doesn’t matter how fast you walk.

It doesn’t matter whether you are an experienced walker or haven’t walked in a long time.

What matters is accepting the invitation.

ON NOVEMBER 15, WALK YOUR WAY.

Over the coming weeks, we will introduce the eight modalities of the PULPA LLC MARATHON, explaining how each one works and how you can choose the one you prefer.

We will also announce locations around the world where meeting points may be established for those who would like to walk together.

But today, we want to ask you one first question:

ARE YOU READY TO ACCEPT THE CHALLENGE?

Save the date:

SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 15, 2026

And get ready to discover something that has perhaps always been with you:

the pleasure of walking.

Organized by: WALKREADANDWRITE.COM + PULPA LLC

PULPA LLC MARATHON: WALK YOUR WAY

One date. One universal time.

Eight modalities.

One purpose: TO WALK.

For information, participation, and coordination of this event, please contact Alexios Nomikos. Email: alexiosnomikos@gmail.com

Traducido al Español