The fever is just now starting to break. I am so dizzy I cannot stand for more than a minute at a time. I feel bad that I cannot run with Chrome, but I cannot stand, so if I were to run with Chrome, I would have to stand for 1 minute, then fall down, then repeat--it would take a long time and it would be something other than running. The beautiful women at the forest would think Chrome had a retarded uncle.
Pain, as the short frenchman said, does not exist in the mountains or on the roadside or in the baskets of apples we browse at the market. As I cursed the mountains for yet another stretch of ascents, as the rain and mist and fog rolled in yet once again, the pain and fear and agony I felt did not, as I saw it, exist. I had to focus on the beauty of the mountains, on the prospect of a small village with wisdom that would cleanse my western mind. The main I felt was a phantom disease, yet this phantom disease, this fake thing that doesn't exist in the world to the right or to the left of this boulder which has fallen in to the roadside, is what typically drives the decisions and fears of many men.
What was Chrome's breaking point in the Castle? What was Moraline's breaking point on the ripio and in the wind? What were the coordinates of these breaking points, in their fakeness? Is this what we learn from suffering--that in our journeys, pain can never break us, because pain is is a fake basket of bread we carry with us which weighs us down without ever feeding us?
through pain the man of the west overcomes himself. he returns to the threshold of need. only when he is needful does he feel necessary to himself, necessary to the world. to hurt, to fear, then to pass through as them as they break and not the man, that is pleasure. the pleasure of having strengthened, having overcome. the rest is fucking nonsense.
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