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26th January 1962"The clouds began to gather in the morning, light, fleecy ones; they were gathering fromdifferent directions, mostly from south-west; the sun raced between them and shadows coveredthe land. Towards the evening, the sky was dark and rain was in the air. The road by the houseis not an important thoroughfare, it connects two main streets; there were a great many childrenon it what evening, all dirty, all in rags, all in torn shoes or barefoot. One or two smiled, the restwere solemn, sad and cold; a small boy was playing with a small piece of iron table; he had iton a string with several knots on it; he would run, holding on to the string and the smallcylinder would chase after him; he would look back to see if it was following and each time helooked back, he was delighted to see it was still there; he would smile and talk to it and race off again. He was thin, dark with lack of nourishment, his head covered in a filthy rag. His eyeswere far away and would never come back. They would always be poor, always labouring,always hungry; they would never take the salute in the big military and nationalistic parade;they would die without much resistance and live amid squalor, uneducated and lost. The bigpeople, who were always in the papers who ruled and thought they were shaping the worldwould never know them; there was no affection and no tear and tears only when you died; theyseldom laughed and their eyes never smiled. It was a sad world and it began to drizzle; it laidthe all-pervading dust, washed the leaves clean and it brought that fragrance of rain on dryearth. It was a pleasant smell and the birds had taken shelter for the night. The buffaloes weregetting wet and that was not a nice smell. Suddenly, two forks of lightning tore throughdarkness and for a second in great clarity (were) the naked branches of the trees and the straightelectric poles and a man crouching under a tree. And now it had settled down to rain for thenight. The little boy with the string was no longer on the road.Attention is seeing. Seeing is an art as listening. But one hardly ever listens or sees; everyoneis so occupied, so busy with the things that have to be done, with one's joys, problems and tears.One has no time to see. But time does not give you sight; time hinders seeing, listening. Time isthe space for experiencing and experience only dulls the mind and heart. The mind is filled andthe heart has turned away and so there is no seeing. To see knowledge must be kept in thebooks and not in the mind; knowledge interprets, chooses, giving colour, opinion, weighing,criticising, choosing and then there is no seeing. When the mind is so crowded and the heartdull with sorrow, how can there be seeing? What you see is your own projections, your owndesires, your own fears but you don't see what is. It goes by and you are lost with your owntoys. But when you do see, do listen, then that act is the miracle that transforms, that hasemptied the mind and the heart of the past. You don't to do anything, thought is incapable of this miracle; then that seeing is love, as listening is. You cannot come by these through anyexertion, through the dullness of discipline, through any bargaining nor through the shock of unanswerable questions. There must be emptiness to see, to listen there must be a quietness.It was rather late in the night; lightning and rain were making great noise. Again, the brainwas aware of the lightning, and the rain on the window, but it was motionless, astonishinglystill, for that immensity was there with clarity ans unapproachable strength.in "Journal"Jiddu Krishnamurti
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