Love, oh Love, rescue me!

What is happening to me?

Why do I speak of you as if I knew you, yet when you are questioned before me I answer with anger, forgetting you, and when I am praised for my words I answer with modesty, forgetting myself?

Why do I chase 'being loving' or, worse still, claim to have achieved it, caught in the seduction of showing others an image of spiritual perfection far removed from the reality of my actions?

Why does it happen in my imagination that I experience God, that I write of peace and happiness, while my egotistical delusions dim every possibility of true divine recognition?

Will I become loving by believing I am, or a Master by appearing to be one, or transcend the world by despising it, feeling superior to everything?

Will my inner work, which everyone hears about, ever make me bow my head and be, from my heart, genuinely humble?

Empty me, oh Love, for I am suffocating on myself!

Can I leave everything for you, even my idea of you?

Can I, beyond the concept of 'being', simply be?

Can I, without ever needing to speak of you, love?