The Different Faces of a Man

In his slumber when he awakes, he reaches out to me with hands wide open. Sometimes that makes me feel that he's just a young boy.

In my dreams, I would be hanging by a rope with millions of arms reaching out from the abyss below, trying to pull me down, trying to pull themselves up together with me as the rope slowly inches its way up.

At times, when I recall the faces of others whom I have known, it makes me depressed for a moment, but I just choose not to dwell into it too much these days.

Why assume something which is not known of when the light comes all truth will be revealed?

Sometimes I wonder is this really love.

Is love about squabbling one day and the next kiss and make up?

Is love about the heart or the bread?

Is love about the words or the actions?

Signging off,

PpD