"Immature people falling in love destroy each other’s freedom, create a bondage, make a prison. Mature persons in love help each other to be free; they help each other to destroy all sorts of bondages. And when love flows with freedom there is beauty. When love flows with dependence there is ugliness.
A mature person does not fall in love, he or she rises in love. Only immature people fall; they stumble and fall down in love. Somehow they were managing and standing. Now they cannot manage and they cannot stand. They were always ready to fall on the ground and to creep. They don’t have the backbone, the spine; they don’t have the integrity to stand alone.
A mature person has the integrity to stand alone. And when a mature person gives love, he or she gives without any strings attached to it. When two mature persons are in love, one of the great paradoxes of life happens, one of the most beautiful phenomena: they are together and yet tremendously alone. They are together so much that they are almost one. Two mature persons in love help each other to become more free. There is no politics involved, no diplomacy, no effort to dominate. Only freedom and love."
Osho (via queenof-lowerchelsea)
Fucking beautiful.
(via heyykiddoo)
(via aciid-drip)
at the edge
What way is there, to
measure the expanse,
of my budding roots?
Lost in starry light,
I evaporate from the
base, of the ocean;
ecstasy pervades the scene
wrapped up, in the moons
silvery embrace—
I stand at the edge,
of your rosy heart,
waiting for a chance,
to show you the depths,
of my longing for
your spirits dearly fathoms—
Whisking amidst my
clamoring grove, of
badly tuned amaryllis,
I reach for the lantern
long forgotten, and
still quite dreamlike—
Headfirst
Lying, upon an ashen crescent,
I wade, in a benumbed pool, of light—
The tingle of my spine dissolving,
into crystalline specks smeared with doubt,
and senseless self-immolating thought
leaves my once fertile meadow adust—
Yet my heart remains strong
as a relentless charioteer,
pushing through a barrage,
of arrows cast ablaze, by your leer—
What refuge is left, of
this soil but your heart
beating the same as mine?
of first light
From the arrival, of first light;
droplets freckling the wall give birth,
to the curves and textures, of your
visage—
You seem to extend,
into my every direction,
and leave behind trails,
of flushing heart-matter that ignite
my mind into pure lunacy—
We could mosey right,
into paradise, and reveal
the skies blurred-out link,
to the heavens shimmering eye;
my happiness, in connection
with your happiness—
Withered Leaves
I am the withered leaves
caught, in between your
stubbornly condensed limbs
And as I descend
through a faded aureole
dislocated from your heart:
I cannot not help but watch
as you are auctioned off
to the lowest bidder—
I’d prefer the gnashing
of my teeth, upon the curb,
than the sour mist, of tears,
upon the windowpane,
or even a quiet drive
down a road paved, in disdain—
Am I Really That Doubtful?
The heart is a congealed lily,
pallid, in all its sterile portions;
rimed, in Cabernet and spent
dopamine—
As my willowy branches
reach through a gelid
starry cluster, and
bend right around your
skeletal frame
a heavy blend made, of
suspense and rosy lips
will dye my senses;
mimicking the stream,
of torn heart sutures—
Though doubtful, at first sight,
inside lies a smile, of perfectly
aligned and floating joy;
to know that you are soon to return—
Still a work in progress. xD
