#dustyfootphilosopher

[monochromelagos]

Aja white Gbera! #DailyAesthetics #MonochromeLagos #DustyFootPhilosopher (at London, United Kingdom)

[monochromelagos]

So what does "People with Spikes" mean? She asked, right after i had just obnoxiously explained what being a Dusty Foot Philosopher meant. Ofcourse in the usual quirk i apologized for being a smart mouth, Nah never, i like your wits and i wish i lived in your head she said. Its a jungle on my scalp as you can see, i replied. Thats where the wildest beautiful untainted things live she said - I'm not wild i retorted. Yes you are she insists. So people with spikes, i explained that I'm a floating paper propelling accross the urban landscape somehow. Once in a while this spikes pop up on my radar and in alot of cases original intention would be to avoid but the wind that propels the paper has its own flight plan and bam! it smashes me into these spikes of a person and in my experience they are always special and they show me thier unique world built on thier own philosophy and 6th sense and for the brief moment we become together a collage or mixed media; it might be beautiful or not but it is always worthwhile. Then aaaagain, the wind takes me. Till i find another spike. Am i a spike, she asked? I'm stuck here i replied, atleast for now she said. #DailyAesthetics #MonochromeLagos #DustyFootPhilosopher #PeopleWithSpikes (at Lagos, Nigeria)

[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."