Love is a river, a waterfall. There is happiness, and there is sorrow, too. Love is a chenar; it is surrender. It gives trust. Habits are looking at the mirror; it goes on year upon year, till the end of life.

When I fall in love, I want to tell, I want to confess my love straight away. Therein lies love’s essence. I can barely help myself, in truth I can’t. I think not of strategy nor concepts like the game. Even if I thought I’d shock; as I’m at the fore of a roaring water’s flow.

Love or caring is contradictory. Even in its purest, simplest, and most needful meaning, I can’t bring my self to say I love you to a soul. Years go on and I can’t say; this is a love of son for father; mother. I want, I cry out in my thoughts, but cannot say; his life comes to an end, but I hide my cry inside my mind.

Habits: the consumers of some, nutrition for others. Can we explain the habit of falling in love with the same woman always? Who knows? But I for one know this, love’s a habit I’ll never quit. 

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