MahaYogi was never lonely, part of the spiritual path was in transcending it, and yet paths crossed. One day he glanced at a matrimonial advertisement on Jeevan Sathi, a portal for the Indian subcontinent, a face stood out, a manager at the bank of America, a lonely single woman in her thirties.
Women always found MahaYogi interesting, so interesting that they often found new pretexes to meet him, sometimes invading his personal space, right up to liberties like massaging his feet, in a hope to get intimate enough for sex, but MahaYogi avoided them, he thought of them as mobile sperm banks, and did not really have any natural urge to donate sperm, even for democratic reasons.
This girl turned out to be in yogi's dreams, a virtual person, an augmented reality, and she found a place in yogi's mind, haunting him for decades in an innocuous, way with her voice.
This girl, whom Yogi called Aurora, was frozen in a face, she was a decade ago, now she had aged in a reality somewhere between life and a dream. But the face lived on immortalized in memory, that Yogi never attributed importance to. A face that reminded him of a timeline he never lived, maybe all timelines existed, all branches, in righteous reality, and somewhere MahaYogi was stuck in a doldrum career as a suburban dad with a daughter, stuck with this aurora of his imagination, commuting every day to work in traffic, a special prayer is called for in such situations with MahaYogi pleading to the almighty for respite, respite from such a fate, whether it exists in a dream, where timelines meet or in imagination, thoughts of this were unwelcome. So Yogi learned to forget. He forgot. He was celibate, and that was the joy, not an ephemeral orgasm, the sensual satisfaction in a woman's body for a night and decades of burden after that.
Fortunately, another saint Riponche Senior happened to drop by, and Yogi was directed in a deep spiritual discussion on winds and active pumps. Riponche wanted to know if modern science like active pumps and windmills affected the good winds and water spirits, which are part of the Shambhala tradition.
Women always found MahaYogi interesting, so interesting that they often found new pretexes to meet him, sometimes invading his personal space, right up to liberties like massaging his feet, in a hope to get intimate enough for sex, but MahaYogi avoided them, he thought of them as mobile sperm banks, and did not really have any natural urge to donate sperm, even for democratic reasons.
This girl turned out to be in yogi's dreams, a virtual person, an augmented reality, and she found a place in yogi's mind, haunting him for decades in an innocuous, way with her voice.
This girl, whom Yogi called Aurora, was frozen in a face, she was a decade ago, now she had aged in a reality somewhere between life and a dream. But the face lived on immortalized in memory, that Yogi never attributed importance to. A face that reminded him of a timeline he never lived, maybe all timelines existed, all branches, in righteous reality, and somewhere MahaYogi was stuck in a doldrum career as a suburban dad with a daughter, stuck with this aurora of his imagination, commuting every day to work in traffic, a special prayer is called for in such situations with MahaYogi pleading to the almighty for respite, respite from such a fate, whether it exists in a dream, where timelines meet or in imagination, thoughts of this were unwelcome. So Yogi learned to forget. He forgot. He was celibate, and that was the joy, not an ephemeral orgasm, the sensual satisfaction in a woman's body for a night and decades of burden after that.
Fortunately, another saint Riponche Senior happened to drop by, and Yogi was directed in a deep spiritual discussion on winds and active pumps. Riponche wanted to know if modern science like active pumps and windmills affected the good winds and water spirits, which are part of the Shambhala tradition.
