Ode to yove - VII

And I expect yove. How, tell me, am I worth it all? The noblest thing extant desired by the lowliest of the characters. How do I expect ambrosia after sowing poison? How presumptuous of me. Oh please, how can the poor I find my way of out this. The poor I is capable of nothing. Most ignoble, stubborn and exceedingly ugly, I find nothing to my cause. I depend of the perfection of the heart, the nature of yove; I trust in my being human and accept all that is endowed. I need yove though I'm not worth it.

Interestingly, there are two kinds of yoves - real and fake, unconditional and its opposite, true and superficial. And startling to know, contrary to popular belief, the former is prevalent much more than the latter for it is only some who pretend of loving but each one has fallen into true and perfect yove, unknowingly. What is unconditional yove, by the way? A state in which the object of affection is liked, yoved categorically; when one sees no vice, when one recognizes no pain, when one senses nothing undesirable from the object, it is then unconditional. Though the beloved may cause one misery manifold, may lead to ruination, may blight one's life, the lover sees no wrong to ever be associated with its source, it is then complete yove. And surprisingly all are in deep (of depth unfathomable) and irrevocable yove.

Every being I see is in yove with ego, the traitor, greed, the exaggerator, lust the allurer. No. Not them, each being I see is in love with pleasure and comfort and they provide it, hence the induced love. But true love indeed. A person would renounce his mother but not his ego. A man could kill his father but not the lust. A human could dismember his children but not his greed. How true is the yove? Wow. These evils, the blighters, the cause of all pain, of all sorrow are so dearly yoved and owned by man, how much more selfless could one be? These deceitful entities which promise to bring joy, are accompanied only by fear, dismay, pain and despondency and still they rule my heart. I already know what true yove is. One which has no bound. No matter how much they pain me, I shall keep up the hope of extracting pleasure some time and attempt to draw solace. I salute thee, O mankind and I salute myself too.

No person yoves his parents but only the needs they fulfill. No person yoves his siblings, but only the happiness they give. No one yoves his spouse, but only the pleasure that is derived, only the needs that are satisfied. Who yoves friends? Everybody yoves the joy that is attained. Where are children yoved? If the children are a cause of pain, they are disowned. If parents are a barrier, they are crossed. If siblings have clashes, they are renounced. If friends can give only pain, they are left. Who yoves another? One only loves the pleasure that is derived, only the happiness that is felt, only the desires that are (never) sated. People don't love people. This is the superficial yove because the person is not important but what the person can give you. How amusing. But to talk of real yove...

Like the egotist yoves his reputation, I need the same yove. Like the greedy yoves others' wealth, I need the same yove. Like the lustful is enticed by form and beauty, I need the same yove. Like the sadist yoves pain, I yove yove like that. Like the thirsty man who craves for a drop of water, I crave for you O yove.

Respect the fish, O ignorant being, I must learn to respect the fish. Of how it loves the water, of how it lives in water, of how it dies in it, of how it is imbued in it, of how the fish craves for it even when cut into a thousand parts and digested, it yearns for water. It has known the art of true yove, it knows it's needs and I know them not. Look at me, the unfortunate fish, who roams around in search for what I live in and what lives in me.

Ode to Yove - VI

People live on their lives, people like me, without yove, crying, in torment. And I want to break free and get entangled in your yove. Otherwise I shall go on living in the living hell with no hope of recovery. I want to get out of the question and live in the answer.

What am I to do with people? People who come and go - like seasons - stolid and free. I am to do with myself and my yove, that what I ultimately shall come to possess, that which I shall come to possess once I do away with people. Do away with others from the heart, place of love shall be created and such a space shall be created others will fit in easily, comfortably.

Oh yove, you have no time, no date, no day. You are forever, every minute, every moment. How soothing you are, dear friend. You are what I have not, you are what I thought I got, you are the one besought, you are what I still have not. Yove is each moment, you are each moment; constant as the waves of the sea, as the sheen of the sun, which exists latent or sensible.

It is the best of times, it is the worst of times, the worst of times. I am so smart, so I thought; I know now, that I'm not. I am so smart; I am such a fool, such a fool. I am so strong; I am so weak, so weak. I am so firm; I am so brittle, so brittle. I am so quick; I am obtuse, so obtuse. I am detached; I am so attached, so bounded, so bounded. I am compassionate; Compassion is a choice by those who're free. I am so compassionate; I am so miserable, so harsh. I am so pure; I am so diseased, so blighted. I am so modest; I'm such an ass, such as ass. I am so sweet; I am such a hypocrite, such a bloody hypocrite. I am so deep; I am so hollow, so shallow. I am so noble; I am vile and wicked, vile and wicked. I am so truthful; I'm a liar, always a liar. I am so lovable; I am perfectly hateful, perfectly perfectly hateful. I am perfect; I am so broken, so broken, so broken.

And I expect love. How, tell me, am I worth it all? The noblest thing extant desired by the lowliest of the characters. How do I expect ambrosia after sowing poison? How presumptuous of me. Oh please, how can the poor I find my way of out this. The poor I is capable of nothing. Most ignoble, stubborn and exceedingly ugly, I find nothing to my cause. I depend of the perfection of the heart, the nature of yove; I trust in my being human and accept all that is endowed. I need yove though I'm not worth it.

Ode to Yove - V

Ha ha ha ha! Make me mad after it please! I want to be insane. Think me mad of human race! Please treat me as mad and banish me from your memories! I would love to be known as mad. What ego then? What attachment? What ego now? Of what can I pride. I am like a beggar entreating, asking for yove for all that I seem to possess is of no value except that it might help me survive physically. But the mind? It writhes of hunger and insatisfaction. It feels that huge void. I feel like a slave of my own temptations and desires, of pain and pleasure, of repute and disrepute. What greatness can slaves possess? What is there to pride?

How insane can somebody be? I want to be that. Strange desire, it is, to be called mad. But ultimate pleasure, it is, to be rejected and nondescript when you know you have all that you need and want nothing more and want nothing at all. Your yove shall do the magic and I wait eagerly. Wait with patience and let things happen for I know what must happen, must happen. And I know that yove must happen too.

Where is now that fear, the dreaded fear, that plagued me for time immemorial? Where does it now reside, when it has been rooted up from my mind? I have been extricated. For I have accepted all happenings, all sorrows and all joyless joys. All due to the very simple yove.

All music is noise without your touch in the mind, every note sounds so profound with your taste. And that sweet music exponentiates the want even more, how so very sweet. My ears want to hear no more than you and eyes want to see nothing except you. Oh these profane senses, they know all except you, they feel all except your yove. These nugatory senses are unwanted if they ask for anything except you.

Yove breeds compassion and forgiveness. Forbearance too. Practicing them is golden. Yove breeds insouciance and I yove it. Yove subdues are restlessness and peace prevails. Yove destroys impurities that act as inhibitors to the process of yoving more. Yove engenders equanimity and boosts candor. Yove brings honesty. Yove is the bracelet I want to wear, jewels do not impress me. Pure, unadulterated yove.

People live on their lives, people like me, without yove, crying, in torment. And I want to break free and get entangled in your yove. Otherwise I shall go on living in the living hell with no hope of recovery. I want to get out of the question and live in the answer.

Ode to Yove - IV

And what has this world become. I see no friends, no relatives. All a superficial part of life. Customary. All for their business. There is no love I see in children or parents, neither brother nor sister, but only an outward appearance. I am a cynic for that is all one can be given the hollow ways of the world; of which I am, unexceptionally and unfortunately, a part.

How short is the life and so much to be had. How limited is everything. Oh God, it disheartens me and fills my heart with gloom when I realize, seldom, the true fleeting nature of all that is seen or felt. Why was it made this way? And why is it so difficult to accept? No, I must not ask questions for I know my worth. I must just try to accept. I know now, I have not what I want completely, but the hope of it is precious too. The want of it is something I want too. Scrumptious it is.

Whenever I hear or read of love, projected love that maybe, my heart mellows. I realize how badly I need it. And when the need culminates, its wells up the source of endless joy; the inviolable tears, the mark of blooming love itself.

Along with the multitude of unfortunate souls, who have spent their lives in turmoil, searching for what shall complete the void in them with material that tingles their senses, along with them there are extant, still, some perfect lovers. Those who have manifested the inherent capability of every human and have reaped its fruit. I salute such dauntless souls who have attained purity of heart using the soap of love and I adjure them to teach me the same. How else does one get rid of this pus, the constituents of the festering mind. The only medication known is the much cliched love. How cliched! I hate writing love, love all the time even if I mean it because on reading it sounds so shallow even though it originates from the depths of my soul. I shall call it yove and then I shall start recognizing all what I have in me, the vestige, and name it as yove and start afresh.

That heart which has been steeped with yove is never freed of it. A sweet prison, the heaven of a prison. Who wants to be free? But the mind is overwhelmed by temptation rather than yove. It has no want for it, the stupid creature. Engrossed in what shall leave me aggrieved, I work like a donkey that runs after a carrot fixed in front of his head and as the donkey works his way ahead, the carrot too wants to be chased but is never achieved. Like the mirage in a desert to a thirsty that promises to slake his desire and abandons him in the end, I chase what shall leave me stranded.

Oh if only I could have perfect sincerety. I am tired of pretense, so hard to do. Why can I not be myself? What am I afraid of? My friend pain? I want categorical earnestness, urgently. And for that I want yove. Give me yove please!

Ha ha ha ha! Make me mad after it please! I want to be insane. Think me mad of human race! Please treat me as mad and banish me from your memories! I would love to be known as mad. What ego then? What attachment? What ego now? Of what can I pride. I am like a beggar entreating, asking for yove for all that I seem to possess is of no value except that it might help me survive physically. But the mind? It writhes of hunger and insatisfaction. It feels that huge void. I feel like a slave of my own temptations and desires, of pain and pleasure, of repute and disrepute. What greatness can slaves possess? What is there to pride?

Ode to love - III

I concern myself with nothing more than what I need most - love. Tonnes of it! Let my heart be as tender as cotton, as smooth as silk, as warm as wool. Let it be saturated with your love and let it still want more, the greed of love. Wow!

Alas, my affection, the pull towards you is so inchoate. It should live on the increasing side of things. And this cub of fondness too, can provide such an effect to exult me in the most trying circumstances, imagine the lion itself. I cannot stop imagining the shape of perfect love and yet cannot imagine it for only by experience is it known and not by words. But even what I have forces me to accept all your doings, seemingly good or bad, as the same. What is done by you is better done. What is not done should not have been. This is what submission teaches me and I must learn, submission being the immediate concomitant of love.

But the problem of intensity forces me to think that, is knowing my feeling as love correct or perhaps a milder term shall live more correctly? Perhaps I really get to know it some day but until then art thou my beloved or simply liked? To measure the firmness of emotion, pain given by you is the touchstone. If I can always welcome pleasure or pain (both the rogues) alike, without thought, subconsciously; If I do not have to tell myself that I must accept but rather live in a state previously-defined acceptance, I might call it love.

No... there's more to it. Engendering of perfect acceptance, removal of all hostility, and attainment of perfect faith is not the end of love. There is certainly more. But what? Incessant remembrance, absolute inebriation? Why do I surmise rather than actually experiencing it! I will know what it is (only) when I have it. I must strive to achieve it rather than making conjectures about what it might contain. How wonderful a thought.

But I like to talk of remembrance. I like to talk of all that that makes me remember whom I want to. I like these odes to love for the reason they make me retain your yearn, and make me cognizant of what I actually do want; they make me remember the love I have seldom felt but with great intensities (or so I feel). And it is ciphered to such a good deal that no soul might have the power to surmise what it means which is amusing to the extreme and even if someone has enough time to waste on my deepest effusions, I couldn't care less! All I want is to retain this feeling. I feel, by my inner self, beholden to behold you always.

But the best part of remembrance is the pain of separation, so painful and sweeter than anything for it spawns brackish water, which when trickles down through my face onto my hand breaks open the vault to the ultimate pleasure. And the pain begets more pain which accrues and further increases the pining, until it reaches a maximum and then I start coming into my normal being. The mind then runs wild, out of my control completely, but it is most relaxed and fresh for the yen has been condensed into the form of tears, I need to engender more of it, I need to work for more love, like the farmer ploughs and reaps and ploughs again hoping to reap his crop again and again, like a livelihood, I too, plough the soil of my heart, till it with your love, water it with these tears and enjoy the fruit of pleasure. But I have to work hard!

'I' have to work! Can you imagine the temerity of the speaker who can utter such haughty a statement. The love is not a product of my work but completely your doing. How does one fall in love in the first place, I have not stopped to think. Is it because of greatness, or superiority of power and intellect? Or because of humility? Or because you have something I greatly desire to achieve. But all I desire to achieve is you! Let me not confuse myself with the hollow rhetoric. All I know is I want your love, by hook or by crook. And I want nothing else.

Ode to love - II

I run after love, how amusing if I catch it, how so wonderful if I don't now and so says submission. How rugged is the ego with sharp edges and I apply the silk of love, cream of submission and cover it with the smooth indifference.

I run after a variety of other things too, for after all, the heart in me contains loves of different kinds. Say the love of the ego or the love of a million other yearnings. I carry the load of expectation and bear the brunt of its repercussions. I will have to throw all these off as quickly - the expectation, the attachments, the ego and a gazillion other leeches - as possible and reduce this amalgamation of love, sublimate it to the most sublime state. Your love puts everything into a time warp, that iota of love, I mean to say. How amusing would perfect love be?

What indulges and allures one, must scare and scratch one. From what I seek joy by its mere presence shall burden me with agony by its sheer absence. The directions are opposite and the magnitudes are same, life adds up to zero, maybe. The coin take the form of both heads and tails, with equal probabilities. I want to get rid of the coin for once and for all.

When you speak, I listen with ardor and when you are spoken of I listen with zeal. I wish I could love your talk for infinities to come, how wonderful would that be. The moment when that fire dwindles, is of pain. I desire the fire. How soothing it is to be steeped in love and having a thought no other. When the head of a toblerone is severed and the T-block melts in your mouth, that sweetness, that stimulation of the tongue is nothing as compared to when your sweet, lofty thought embraces me.

The anger that burns minds, is like the forest fire that burns the tender plant of love. What I cannot digest is that if one loves another, doesn't the heart become so tender, so mellow as to not being able to hate anyone else? Doesn't it render the person devoid of anger? If one wave of the sea is loved, how can hate for another one flourish?

When I know the ways of the world, why do I not accept them? When I know the human is not the possessor of his own mind but only a slave in the hands of countless urges, how can I blame anybody? When I know that everybody is inherently good but with actions vile due to desires that extend perfect ascendancy over poor mortals, how can anybody be hated? When each action one does is 'right' for the moment according to his knowledge, why can anybody not be forgiven? When I know the movement of the hand can either slap or caress, why am I not prepared for both?

Let me not maunder into questions that are not questions but sincere hopes. Let me be grateful to the soul that can love. Let me be ever sanguine for more love and more love and still more. Let me know that there exists no limit, the ever increasing, tending to infinity, the unreachable. What a ridiculous way to represent an emotion of such grandeur with a handful letters? L-o-v-e? How ridiculous is language, even trying to represent it; how limited is it; how superficial; how inaccurate. But this is the best tool we have to convey our message across to others? What others? What others do I care of? Why does anybody need my message? Why does anyone have the need to glance at my emotions? The others are as temporary as anything else. How amusing is evanescence. The desirable and the dreaded, both end.


I concern myself with nothing more than what I need most - love. Tonnes of it! Let my heart be as tender as cotton, as smooth as silk, as warm as wool. Let it be saturated with your love and let it still want more, the greed of love. Wow!

Ode to love

Outside the air is still and tranquil, but the inside is roiling and boiling. Outside, the seasons change everyday, gradually, until I realize that it has changed completely from winter to summer to autumn and spring. But on the inside, the ostensible changes are the different facades of the same structure, the masks of the same entity. The masks are black and white, and grey too but the blackness of the masquerader remains hidden when he wears anything but black. Black is good. It shows his real self to me and I want to escape him, the aspiration rises at least. When he is white, I am relieved, duped actually. Like an abscess, he sticks to me, but an abscess at least is honest in its appearance.

What is then the cure? Isn't the cure the sweetest thing not known to man? And still isn't it the most cliched emotion amongst us humans? I yearn for love and that shows I lack it. I have just tasted infinitesimal bits of it, maybe, and I fell completely in love with love, wonder what the whole thing tastes like.

When that moment of culmination arrives, bliss fills me. And there is more to come. When that extreme concentration of remembrance of one thought, of your thought, is achieved, those surges of pleasure, the eddies that twirl in my head with the utterance of utter delight, then I remember what a fool I have been leading a life otherwise. And people thought an orgasm was the best thing that could happen to man. The more the purity and sincerity of thought, more the ecstasy that rains and manifests itself in the form of brackish water. That secretion amplifies the exultation manifold and deludes the outsiders of contrary circumstances. How amusing.

How amusing to confuse others' thoughts of me. How amusing to not bother what negative is being thought of me. No! How amusing to know what negative is being thought and enjoyment from that knowledge. How amusing so very amusing to know every person respects you not but thinks you insane. How so wonderful. But how so worthless, devoting time to think of the thoughts of others.

I relish the love, the submission, the gratitude. I relish being imbued in lovable remembrance, being unperturbed, at peace. But why is it so rare? Why is it so difficult? Why do I have no control over it? I have no control over its start or its end. Those moments of sincere emotion are beyond me. But what is not beyond me?

How amusing to not care what is beyond me. How delightful the feeling of acceptance. How comforting the loss of fears. How reassuring the triviality of everything. How sweet is your pleasure and sweeter your pain.

I relish the pain, the indicator, the friend. It is real until I believe it is and goes when I know it is as good or as bad as pleasure, its counterpart. When I do believe it real, then pain pains me and I fail to extract, rather, forget how to extract the joy of out this pain. How amusing the infinite pain of the absence of infinite love, because the infinite pain implies the yearn for the infinite love, the delight of my soul.

I run after love, how amusing if I catch it, how so wonderful if I don't now and so says submission. How rugged is the ego with sharp edges and I apply the silk of love, cream of submission and cover it with the smooth indifference.