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.
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.
Kaala Kavva Strikes Again!! Beware!
6:58 AM
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