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.