PartTimeDustyFootPhiloso-pher

I respectfully refuse to be organized in my entries, but brains rarely are. Here will be found thought trains, ramblings, diary entries, and scribbles. Best of luck in deciphering them. my hope is that some of these feelings will resonate in those to whom they are familiar. and by the way, Welcome! have a seat! (unless you already are.) Tea? pleasure to meet you. Name's Grace, but to you I am merely a stranger across an expanse that sometimes, like now, seems breachable by words.

[fairlightd-blog]

Thought train of a rainy day philosopher

we crave beginnings. why else is there a fountain in the midst of concrete, of progress? A bit of nature, of beginnings, of basics, there in the middle of what we hold as the future.

we crave basics and beginnings for fear of endings. beginnings we have the chance to choose again. we can walk the other fork, plunge the other direction- often rose colored through the lense of memory.

do we really think that given a second chance we'd get it perfect? then why didn't we? the same tendencies that caused our errors in the first don't allow escape from their lessons.

we hate endings because often they have set in stone the mistakes we refused to right, to mend.

why do we consider ourselves tall? we stand on a hill, and look down upon our surroundings. we build UP, ever upwards, reaching. we look down, even when we're falling. why do we not look up? and acknowledge that we are not the summit. 

who decides when is a beginning? I smile at you; that's a beginning. a beginning of something. a beginning with a thousand chances to make it perfect, but who decides what is perfect? do you smile too? that's a beginning, a moment. it's perfect.

perfection is made of moments, because perfection is birthed through darkness, and desolation. through human error, mistakes, and pain. it is our window of comparison that teaches us to recognize what is bright, and joyful, by what it is that we have, left behind in it's stead. 

perfection cannot be complete, because it is the sum of all things imperfect- and broken. shattered scraps of human misery are it's very foundation. 

perfection is the moments in which these are put to rest for a snatch in time, in which time all the things we long for can manifest themselves in a burst chuckle, a yell of triumph, a long awaited kiss, a well earned achievement, a new birth...

it is ours to seek these moments, and to snatch them from the fabric of life; so that when our eyes are gray, and our limbs feeble, and we look back upon the quilted moments of human stupidity, discontent, of hurt or unrealized potential,... that these moments can overshadow them, and cast a rosy hue o'er the top of our lives, loves, and choices, until with lovely sharp longing we can say, "those were MY moments, and they were perfect."

[fairlightd-blog]

Am I the only one who begins to feel immortal and reckless whilst using an expensive razor, only to be reminded of my mortality by a cheap disposable one with a frightfully abusive attitude?