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.