Constants

Years ago, a friend once told me I had so much potential but that something was always holding me back from meeting it. Back when she said this, it was usually a boy. She went on to draw me a picture—after the everyday consumption of energy post our dedication to our daily tasks and responsibilities, the hours spent simply working to sustain our lives, etc., we have very little time left for ourselves, as little as 10% of a day—that is it!

She described a scene from her balcony one day—looking down upon a young couple having an emotional fit on her street. That was easily me all those years ago, just on someone else’s street. What a waste of time. What a waste of this impermanent life.

And yet. “I fall in love with everyone I meet.”
(Do you remember that line? It’s from a movie I absolutely adored.)

It is years now since my friend spoke those words, and I didn’t know how deep the issue ran, but this is what I do—I still fall in love with everyone I meet. It’s not even a romantic kind of love; it doesn’t have to be.

It is listening, caring, getting involved, worrying about what they think, weighing every word I speak, reading too much into theirs, putting them before me.

It was a while before I realized not everyone lives this way. That when someone else speaks, it isn’t always a heart to heart—it’s just a learned conversation at times. A repetition of things they’ve allowed themselves to say, while the rest stays guarded. That’s also when I realized I had no guard. If I spoke to you, I was an open book, not pausing to wonder if you would want to read. Most people don’t, by the way. And rightly so. It’s their 10% to keep!

People come, people go. That’s how it works. To every story that begins, an end follows. Because that is life too. The only thing to hold on to is a constant. Constants aren’t forever either but just that: constant—the only something to remain with you through every storm or calm; the thing that gives you back your breath after life knocks it right out. Also—and this is the important bit—constants are usually not a person.

I’m learning now to acknowledge mine. Words, stories, art—they all coalesce to form a record of moments in life. To say, this happened. I was there; I felt it with my every sense. This was not just in my head—but even if it was, it was real to me in every way.

For a while now, I’ve been wanting to write something longer. Something more raw than the momentary rush of a poem, and something a little clearer than the ambiguity of metaphors.

This is my record of forming stronger constants during my 10%.

Until next time.

:)