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?