Dear diary,

Music's finally back on the blog! Cheers all around!

Dear diary,

I read a friend's blog today and came across this post about constants; objects, tangibles or intangibles that keep us rooted, and not let the eccentricities of daily life sweep us away into the dangerous unknown.

A constant is anything that one finds personal and has shown to be a remarkable unwavering force in times when an anchor is needed. For me, those would be friendships, family, and my writings. But where does the danger lie when one's sense of being centers around an irreplaceable external object so firmly and so dependently? Are constants that we see actually only temporal constants, nothing more than a hot bowl of soup when we're sick? Our stubborn and sometimes irrational dependance upon these objects; do they serve us or the other way round? Are we just creepers clinging onto a wall that may eventually crumble to dust, and with it the meanings of our existence?

I cannot guarantee that my friendships will last as long as I do, and neither should I expect my family to be around always and whenever I need them. And what of my writings, should I lose my limbs and ability to think, or be blind and deaf? I would be the creeper crushed beneath the rubble, and surely life would have lost all its worth. Then, are real constants a myth? I would say not.

For some, religion is a constant. Personally I do not think that religion is a constant by itself, because it could be intepreted in all manners and in many conflicting contexts. Rather, I think religion as the guide to the development of one's principles on morality. And to me, principles are the real constants that one should center their lives around. Principles govern our soul and is just as inseparable from our physical bodies. Let us first disregard whether a person's principles are miscontrued as opposed to popular moral judgement. A principle-based life would allow flexibility to explore life within the boundaries that you morally allow yourself to. And even if eccentricity and unpleasantries occur within the boundaries, you know that you are still playing by your own rules.

But even though I agree with what I just said, I lack the foresight and wisdom to clearly define those boundaries, except for a few simple ones. Right now, it would seem to me that my very existence still depended upon my family, friends and writings. Wouldn't it be grander if I were able to just love them for their entirety, without motivation? How ignorant. How foolish.

I can only pray my walls do not crumble.

Breeze

Gentle breeze;
Lift the withered leaves or
Weathered dreams that weighed
Upon thy soul that yearns for
The guileless flight of doves,
White amongst the orange.

Gentle breeze;
Pass through the verandah and
Brush off the stubborn sediment
That defies the reluctant cleaner. And
Aerate the musty room left
Abeyant and stifling.

Gentle breeze;
Comfort the discomfort
Of a body ravaged by the
Angry Sun and impossibly take
This body elsewhere, so that it
Burns no longer.

Gentle breeze;
For all that can be but
Chose the pettiest of forms, yet
Moves the oceans in
Gentle oscillations so it be
Fit for sail.