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| Two lovers kneel in a fiery embrace, bodies entwined like a living prayer, the moment glowing with both tenderness and surrender. |
There are voices that speak of love as something outside the sacred —
a distraction, a fall, something to be left behind.
But Love is not outside.
Love is the door.
Even the most austere traditions place at the summit
the rasa of longing, of union,
the trembling of two who become one.
It is strange to see God in the mountains,
in the sunset,
in a blade of grass —
and not see Him
in the body that is nearest,
the one that trembles in our hands.
The human form is the most fitting altar.
To bow before it with reverence
is not idolatry,
but the final proof that vision is whole —
that nothing is left outside the circle of the sacred.
Desire as the Pulse of Existence
At the root of all that lives
there is a single movement —
the will to be.
Call it Desire.
Call it the first stirring of Love.
Call it the fire beneath creation.
Every longing in a human heart
is a spark from that fire.
At first, desire clings and grasps —
kāma reaching to hold and keep.
But when the heart ripens,
desire softens.
It begins to want not possession,
but giving.
Not to take,
but to pour itself out.
And where these two meet —
the passion that longs
and the love that offers —
there is born something greater:
Bhakti.
Love that burns,
but also bows.
Love that is at once
flame and offering.
Sex as Sacrament
Sex does not stand apart from the sacred.
It is not an intruder,
not a shadow cast against spiritual life.
It can be —
when entered with presence —
the most natural form of worship.
What makes the difference
is not the act itself
but the way the heart is held.
When the touch is conscious,
when the moment is offered,
even the smallest gesture
becomes prayer.
When desire is joined with devotion,
even the body’s own joy
becomes yoga.
śivaśaktisamāyogo yoga eva na saṃśayaḥ
The union of Śiva and Śakti is itself Yoga — there is no doubt.
And when the fire burns without awareness,
intimacy grows pale,
emptied of its sacredness.
But this is not cause for shame —
only a call to remember,
to light the candle again.
Living as Offering
Love is a candle.
We are both the flame
and the wax.
To love is to let ourselves
be slowly consumed —
not in a single leap,
but drop by drop,
breath by breath.
It is easier to give away death
than to give away life.
Easier to die once for God
than to live for God
every hour of every day.
But this is the deeper worship —
to keep burning,
to keep giving,
until nothing is left but light.
When this is seen,
every act becomes altar,
every glance becomes darśan,
every touch becomes prayer.
And no part of life remains outside.
All is folded into the circle,
and the circle burns.
When Only Light Remains
When the flame has done its work
and the wax is gone,
there is no loss —
only radiance.
The candle does not mourn
what it has given.
Its giving is its glory.
So it is with love.
Love was never meant to be stored away,
never meant to stay whole and untouched.
It was meant to melt,
to spill over,
to burn down to the end —
until the last shape of “I” and “mine”
is gone,
and only light remains.
Then every act is sacred.
Then even the smallest breath
is part of the great offering.
And in that offering,
God is no longer far away.
God is in the body,
in the gaze,
in the quiet afterglow of the flame —
closer than the heart,
closer than the breath,
closer than the hands that once trembled.
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