It is hard to forget the boys with the bloody eyes and the beggars. Your heart has to break regularly in order to take in the contrast, you cannot drown out the misery with the raging music of eros. I understand now, that that breed of loneliness is a resistance to the natural way of life — man must be sad, it is when we resist that we feel lonely, because we falsely put stock in false remedies we think will cure us. We refuse to let ourselves get accustomed to this eternal, persistent, pervasive sadness. What Joe was talking about was not getting used to the feeling of continued resistance. If you allow yourself to triumph against the great noise it is no longer a weight on your head but a catalyst for sacrifice in a multitude of forms. But this is daunting in itself.

India as purgatory, the corroded gold in the purifying fire.

In the morning we worked for the impoverished on the fringes of the country; and in the nighttime we threw our heads back for absinthe shots and danced in the courtyard of an old dutch hospital that had been converted into a bar. The duality, the dichotomy.

The men who were standing on the back of the garbage truck, and when he flew off the back of the truck and had to gather his trash amidst the trucks passing while his friends snickered. This has got to be the collective sadness of the whole world.

The beggar sitting outside food world, and the poor boy with Down’s syndrome who was constantly shooed day. Places of eating.

“Our aim is the acquisition of knowledge,” states Stephen Dedalus in The Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man”

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