herlucidlife

The Bible is a rule book on how to love God. Not only is He teaching me how to love Him, He’s also showing me how He’s going to love me and IS loving me. Doing the exact opposite of what the Lord has asked will not yield the fruit He wants for me. My little five second fly bye prayer in the morning when I’m still half way unconscious is not enough to suffice the spirit. Especially when He’s commanded me to read His word day and night and pray without ceasing. Doing the bare minimum when called to do the most is disobedient. My God! Step on my toes today, conviction I need You to check me. Grab me back into Your fold, I’ve surely fallen from grace and do not deserve Your mercy. 

Please forgive me for sins of fornication on Friday March 18, 2022. In Jesus Name I Pray, Amen. Too much information on my whereabouts. Being vulnerable means telling my own story in the most raw way that others may somehow feel themselves in my narrative because I know pieces of me are in theirs. All alike maybe not faulting to the same sin but the same concept of hurt is worn by every human on this earth. It’s too close to home to not share that I feel ugly for doing what I did. I hurt myself only and the cut was done with my own knife by my own hand. Not being politically correct, it was one of the most sinful nights of my life. 

Hard on myself for sport, no other punching bag feels better than my face. When did sex become obtainable without marriage? At what point did I decide God’s boundary was out of order for my life? Aching, sore my body remembers how it felt to be near you. Rough with no cause most tend to be gentle with things that are of value, suppose I wasn’t important enough for caution. No longer special, I possess nothing of value to give someone else. You’d do better gathering what you need from another resource, my well has run dry not even I am able to drink. When something or someone has been used, tried on and taken off, being told “the fit isn’t quite right…” Ruby priceless stones end up leaving looking unidentifiable like pebbles, no longer worth “priceless.”

It’s sad to internalize the notion of not producing anything worthy. The air I breath can feel like a waste, who have I assisted when my focus has been releasing myself from cycles of sin? So absorbed they seem to happen even worse overtime, feeling my body react to the pain sin creates. Sharpening skills I’ve gotten better at having pity parties, more intense and self loathing than before they seem to last a little longer. Dragging my face on the concrete, incurring sores coming to the Father looking like a leper feeling my passions being forced to rot away. I want to sit here and fade away into the trash I’ve embodied. When has the hurt become too much that even writing to a willing ear isn’t enough anymore?