Trying to decode the mystery of love would be as difficult as unraveling a cocoon to find the end or the beginning of the thread; but I was the silk-worm who created this cocoon that holds me in. Why was I joyously participating in this creation? Sometimes, I feel helpless; that I have lost myself, that there is no way out. Is there any future for a dead silk worm?
Blind is my love, my love is blind. He speaks to me with his poems. I lose my boundaries.
I Fall from Paradise into love. He plunges into my psyche, tames my desires, sublimates my passions, and pacifies my senses. He has taken me of myself. I am willing to lose my paradise.
My mother died peacefully in her sleep. I believe she is in Nirvana. Perhaps she herself has obtained the Buddha nature. And I am reminded of her telling me when I was a little girl, death is a place of peace.
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This summer passion was stormy.
I am not sure if the storm is to stay or to go away like summer does.
If this passion should come to an end, then let it end on the following note: ‘passion is more than just mere appetite, pleasure is more than just fun.’
Let my passion be renewed with a different sentiment, like in the arrival of a new season. Let it sit at the center, the eye of the storm, and the surrounding wind does not disturb me.
I am at peace.
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