What does make a man a man? Is it the things he is interested in? The kind of music, literature, art that he likes? Is it the opinion he holds about the affairs of the world? Is it the relationships he has with different people?
Is it the people he knows and the company he keeps?
Is it the opinion others have of him?

Is it the sum total of the all the opinions others have of him or the opinions of just some people that he deems the most important? Or is it the opinions of people that someone else studying the man would consider important?
How many different ways can a man come off across as to different people?
Is it all that he thinks in his mind as he goes about the world or when he is in introspection in naked solitude?

Or is it how he acts in front of different people, what he speaks or the way that he articulates his ideas?
How different can his inner ideas, beliefs and opinions be from the way he acts and speaks in front of them?
Is it the arguments and discourse he has with fellow friends and acquaintances or is it all what he later thinks he could have said in order to win that particular argument and not come off across as some complete loser?

So what does make a man a man?
Is it the value that the society places upon him?
Or is it all the value he thinks he himself is worth?
Is he just flesh blood bone dripping tissue?
Or is he something more?

Is he the constant monologue that goes on in his head?
Or is he the general lack of it that shows when he opens his mouth for the billionth time since the past hour?
In the end, what can he be reduced to?
Is he just all the books the poetry he’d ever read?
And the music he’s listened to over time?
And the posters that hang over his walls?
The fashion he’s adopted, the way his hair parts, the way he walks?
Or is it all the thoughts he thinks of but never writes about or paints on or plays by or wears on or builds about or acts out?

Or is it all that he creates but never shows?
Is it all the people who have loved him known him and those few whom he has truly loved back?
Those that hold a patchy mosaic of his soul in their own souls?
Or is it the patches of different people’s soul that well lies within him as well?
What are we all but patches made of different cloth each sharing our patched cloth with the other from the time we love to the time we abandon them?
That is the question I have.

See you tomorrow,
Avi.

P.S. The above is something I wrote back in 2016. I just rediscovered my old notes and poetry after I logged into an Evernote account I had stopped using. It was meant to be a poem but feels more like an inner monologue. So there. Also, I missed my schedule yesterday. I am finding it difficult to post whenever my plans take a different turn and this can especially happen on weekends. Anyway, such inefficiencies will be eliminated. Hang tight.