Love, Knowing, and the Tragedy of Accumulation
Love is not something you do.
Love arises the moment you realize that you do not know.
The problem with the modern human being is not lack of information—it is the excess of it. The moment you think you know someone, love begins to suffocate. When you do not know, there is space. In that space, love naturally flowers.
When knowing drops, love happens.
The moment a drop of knowledge enters, love begins to distort.
Look at human relationships carefully. When two people first meet, they do not know each other. They fall in love. They romanticize it, dramatize it, and sometimes dismiss it by calling it lust. But it is not lust—it is emptiness. Two happy fools meet in a state of not knowing, and that emptiness binds them beautifully.
But slowly, very slowly, the tragedy begins.
They start accumulating—facts, opinions, judgments, memories, expectations, conclusions about each other. And what they proudly call “serious love” is nothing but a heavy accumulation of past impressions. The freshness disappears. Love, which is essentially light and alive, becomes burdened.
Love is like a freshly blossomed flower.
It can sprout only in freshness—not in damp, stale memory.
When memory begins to dominate, love fades. Not because love is fragile, but because you have buried it under yesterday. If memory is kept at a distance, suddenly you will see—love seeps back in.
This is why every relationship looks like a roller-coaster. Highs and lows, passion and boredom, intimacy and irritation. What you call “ups” are moments of consciousness—moments of freshness. What you call “downs” are moments of unconsciousness, when samskaras—your accumulated impressions—take over.
Understand this clearly:
This moment of consciousness is love.
The other moment is unconsciousness.
If you cannot create distance from your samskaras, you will never know love in your heart. And your so-called relationship will naturally go downhill—not because the other person failed, but because you became full.
Love is a window period given to you by life.
A brief opening where there are no waves of distortion—only stillness.
In that stillness, you can breathe in, breathe out. You can feel the air, the water, the sunlight. You can feel another human being—not as an idea, but as life.
But tell me—when you are disturbed within, does the sun mean anything to you? Does fresh air touch you? Does water refresh you? No. Because disturbance has closed your window.
One who is disturbed within can never appreciate stillness.
They want more drama, more problems, more unconsciousness.
This is not just psychology; this is how life functions. Look at molecules. When they are in a state of extremely high spin, if you try to abruptly obstruct them, there will be an accident—or a collapse. But when the spin is moderate, you can gently slow it down and bring it to zero. That zero is stillness.
This is what yoga is.
This is what true medicine is.
This is what meaningful technology should be.
But we have forgotten our methods. We have lost our sense of proportion. Today, we are firing bullets at our own system and calling it sophistication. We are attacking symptoms instead of understanding life.
In this way, humanity will never know peace or bliss. And a species that does not know inner stillness has no way of rising upward—no matter how intelligent it becomes.
Love is not missing in your life.
Stillness is.
When stillness returns, love will not need effort.
It will simply be there—like breath, like sunlight, like life itself.
Participant Interaction: Questions & Responses
Participant 1:
Parth, if love arises when there is not-knowing, then how can relationships survive long-term? Isn’t knowing each other necessary?
Parth:
See, knowing is useful for operating a machine—not for loving a human being. If you treat your partner like a user manual, the relationship will naturally become mechanical.
Practical knowing—what time they eat, where they work, how they function—is necessary. But psychological knowing—“I know who you are”—is poison. The moment you conclude another human being, you close the possibility of love.
A relationship survives not because you know more, but because you remain open. The day you think, “I know everything about you,” love is already on life support.
Participant 2:
But Parth, memories are inevitable. How can we live without memory in relationships?
Parth:
I am not asking you to delete memory. I am asking you to keep it in its place.
Memory is a tool, not your identity. If memory becomes your reality, then you are not living—you are recycling yesterday. Love needs freshness, not amnesia.
If you can create a little distance between you and your memory, then memory will serve you. Otherwise, it will enslave you.
Participant 3:
Why does love feel intense in the beginning and then fade? Is something wrong with us?
Parth:
Nothing is wrong with you—this is just unconsciousness at work.
In the beginning, there is no memory, no expectation, no psychological baggage. Two people meet as possibilities, not conclusions. That is why it feels alive.
Later, you stop seeing the person—you see your memory of them. How can love survive when you are living with a photograph instead of a living human being?
Love has not faded. Your perception has become stale.
Participant 4:
Isn’t love also attachment? Without attachment, won’t relationships become dry?
Parth:
Attachment is not love—it is insecurity wearing perfume.
Love is expansive. Attachment is restrictive. Love allows the other to breathe. Attachment suffocates—then complains that the other is changing.
If your relationship feels dry without attachment, it only means love was never there—only dependency was.
Participant 5:
You said love is stillness. But relationships are emotional. How can stillness exist with emotions?
Parth:
If emotions are like waves, stillness is the ocean. Waves can rise only because the ocean is there.
If you try to create love through emotion alone, you will exhaust yourself. Emotions fluctuate; stillness stabilizes.
When stillness becomes the basis, emotions become sweet. Without stillness, emotions become drama.
Participant 6:
What role does yoga play in love and relationships?
Parth:
Yoga is not about flexibility or fitness. Yoga is about reducing the outer spin.
A highly agitated system cannot experience love—it can only crave, cling, or repel. Yoga slows down the unnecessary turbulence so that you can experience life without distortion.
If you become still, love will not need effort.
If you remain disturbed, even heaven will feel irritating.
Participant 7:
Is it possible to revive love once it feels lost?
Parth:
Love is never lost. Only consciousness is.
If you create distance from your samskaras—even for a moment—you will see love is still there, waiting patiently. Love does not disappear; you disappear behind your noise.
Stillness is the doorway back.
Participant 8:
Why do people resist stillness so much?
Parth:
Because stillness exposes you.
Noise distracts. Disturbance entertains. Stillness shows you exactly where you are—and many people are not ready for that.
So they choose problems over peace. At least problems keep them busy.
Closing Remark (Parth):
Love is not missing in human life.
Awareness is.
If you bring a little consciousness into your relationships, love will not have to be manufactured. It will simply happen—like breathing, like sunlight, like life itself.
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