What unsettles me most about some people is not the harm they cause— but the silence that follows it. No conviction. No trembling. No evidence that a soul was ever stirred. As if something sacred once lived there… and quietly left. What remains is form without fire. A body that breathes, but does not feel . A Walking corpse. Spiritually vacant, yet socially skilled— fluent in imitation, but foreign to truth. They move through people like weather— touching everything, anchoring nowhere. I once mistook that emptiness for mystery. Confused detachment with depth. Thought restraint was discipline, when it was really disconnection. But there was no rootedness in him— only appetite. An endless hunger dressed as desire. A man grazing on bodies, scrolling through souls like they were disposable moments. Not searching. Not building. Just consuming— to quiet something unnamed within him. Unhealed wounds don’t stay still. They wander. From bed to bed, from face to face, from high ...
When uncleanliness reaches— refuse to surrender. Stand still, even when your soul trembles. Somewhere between the bridge of hope and the valley of helplessness, something unseen fractured the air— and I felt it. A vile spirit crept in quietly and called it residence. Each time it appeared, my loyalty—misplaced—responded. Not out of strength, but out of familiarity. Remember when Sarah laughed at what God declared? Not because God was weak, but because doubt grew louder than promise. She believed her time had expired, so she reached for what was accessible— and birthed Ishmael outside of divine timing. So I ask you— How many Ishmaels has your doubt conceived? How many promises have you interrupted just to feel in control again? Each time God plants a seed within you— do you cover it with faith or expose it to fear? At the intersection of belief and uncertainty, do you abandon the process for the illusion of progress? Or do you remain— rooted, unmoved, anchored in truth? You always ...