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Monthly Archives: December 2014

2014 in review

The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2014 annual report for this blog.

Here’s an excerpt:

A San Francisco cable car holds 60 people. This blog was viewed about 660 times in 2014. If it were a cable car, it would take about 11 trips to carry that many people.

Click here to see the complete report.

 
1 Comment

Posted by on December 30, 2014 in Uncategorized

 

How People Who Want to Exaggerate How Torturous Prison is is Keeping Jan Marcusse Behind Bars

What pisses me off is all this cry wolf stories about how prisons are specifically discriminating against the LBGT community, which isn’t even true, is that everyone will believe it and not focus on the real questions we should be asking like why prisons are instituted in the first place, and why so many people go to prison or have extremely lengthy sentences, and why completely innocent people are behind bars today. The only people who actually might enjoy prison, would be people from the LBGT community. So many women running around with their girlfriends and so much drama because of their girlfriends. And so many women to be a girlfriend.

Anyone who knows me will know that I don’t give a damn about people’s sexual preferences. It only becomes my business when it’s constantly being flaunted in my face. And all these misleading lies about how prisons are specifically discriminating against the LBGT community and goes out of their way to torture individuals based on their sexual preference is utter falsehood. It’s people like that who try their best to lie about the truth so they can come out the hero who keeps innocent people like Janet Marcusse still locked up behind bars.

Gloria-Goodwin Killian is an advocate of women behind bars. Unlike some other self-called advocates that I know, Gloria actually does help women who are incarcerated. Gloria herself was released from prison after serving 16 years out of the 32-to life sentence that she was given for a crime that she didn’t commit. Her site, the Action Committee For Women in Prison advocates for the humane, compassionate treatment of all women behind bars. ( https://acwip.wordpress.com/who-we-are/ )

Now, this was supposed to be my happy day of playing Sims 4, but instead, I get to deal with ignorant people like below. Since it’s a post shared publicly on Facebook, it will be shared publicly here on my blog as well. It’s not the first time and it will surely not be the last time I have to deal with people of that nature.

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=10204277942082369 )


This is what it feels like to be in prison

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  • 20 people like this.
  • Laura Ramirez Makes me cry even more for my daughter! When will this nightmare end?

     

  • Xao Thao That’s unrealistic. You paint a picture of prison that looks like a horrible tragedy to get sympathy from others. It’s the same as people painting pictures of prisons as some wonderful rehabilitation place to get continued support for it when it’s not that either. It just is.
  • Gigi Gonzalez wow, when was this picture taken and in what country?
  • Vita Lusty Xao, fuck you.
  • Gigi Gonzalez @ Vita Lusty, I wanted to say that but I don’t think she meant what we first read. Anyway, I feel your pain.
  • Vita Lusty HAHA. It sounds like she is attacking Gloria for using a picture that portrays how she feels. If I misunderstood, I will delete the comment.
  • Xao Thao I wasn’t attacking anyone unlike the hostility Vita showed. I’m saying that it’s not realistic to portray anything in exaggeration no matter what your personal opinions of it is. It’s ignorant people who attack others. For a lack of knowledge is corruption multiplying.
  • Vita Lusty Yeah yeah, speaking with emotion and vigor is seen as ignorant. I heard that on a rape thread earlier this week when men couldn’t believe rape statistics. Emotion binds us. Gloria has every right to use a photo that depicts her feelings. Art serves that purpose.
  • Xao Thao Art serves many purposes. People can be passionate about something and advocate and fight for what they believe is right and that’s a wonderful thing. You’re defensive because you feel like I was attacking Gloria and her use of art to portray her emotions. Perhaps you have a lot of emotions about prison. If you actually read what I said, I didn’t attack anyone. Neither was I telling Gloria not to express herself. And neither have I said that Speaking with vigor and emotion is ignorance. I made a statement about the over exaggeration of subjects and topics that lead to wide misunderstandings of those subjects and topics. I said that it’s ignorant people who attack others. No matter what your defensive is, I don’t care about it because you don’t know me. Neither should you take personal offense to what I say because I don’t know you. You bring up rape as if you want me to feel sympathetic for the statistics that men do indeed get raped as well. I don’t let my emotions or what I feel make hasty decisions that I might regret later. A good balance between passion and understanding helps us to think for ourselves and not be led by other factors or other people who can too easily influence our lives.
  • Vita Lusty Sure. That is diplomatic. Sure men get raped too, of course including everyone on all issues tends to stall movement. It is like saying white people get shot too. Statistics in both cases identify a huge difference of numbers. It is better that we look at each case with a critical eye, not just a diplomatic one. As for the rest of it, I have strong feelings about prison and very strong feelings about voices stifled by opinion and criticism.
  • Xao Thao Im glad you’re out spoken. It’s good to have people fighting for those who can’t, and especially those who can’t fight because they’re stuck in the system. The world doesn’t need people attacking each other. What it needs is people who can stick together no matter what those bonds are that holds them. Diplomacy is needed for many things including being heard and taken seriously for your cause. I was given a letter once by an inmate who wanted me to publish a story in which every other word consists of the word “fuck”. Although I understood their great emotions for what was was going on and where they were at and the injustice they felt, derogatory use of language simply makes them seem uneducated and not serious to others. There was no media source that was going to print a story like that. And the same with people. It’s diplomacy that makes you sound serious to others, even if inside, you want to scream out a blazing trail of obscenities.
  • Vita Lusty There is a time and place for both. I cherish many other writers who use obscenities. Power words. Claiming “fuck” comes from uneducated mouths is outdated. Every other word … Well, yeah. That won’t read well. Either way, I am just protecting Gloria and her voice. She has been through hell. She deserves all the time to speak she wants or needs.
  • Xao Thao I’m certainly not stopping her. More people should speak, but more importantly, more people should speak truthfully. I’ve seen too many make up lies in order to gain sympathy for their ordeals. Prison is bad, but it’s not as torturous as most makes it seem. There are real issues that get lost in the midst of other people wanting their fifteen minutes of fame. I’d like for the real issues to be heard.
  • Xao Thao Derogatory language in the sense that it’s used every other word does make someone seem uneducated. I didn’t claim that only uneducated people curse. Neither did I claim that cursing makes one uneducated. Don’t read in between the lines because there’s nothing to to be read there. I’m pretty straight forward with what I say.
  • Vita Lusty I am not reading between the lines, you just seem wishy washy.
  • Xao Thao And you try to put words in my mouth that aren’t there. No harm done. I know what I said because I can say it again.
  • Vita Lusty It isn’t my intention to hijack this thread and talking around issues without ever really addressing them is a bore. Nothing comes out of it but an image you seek to maintain about yourself. Safe. Democratic. Inoffensive. And with no real point at all.
  • Xao Thao I apologize for hijacking this thread to explain. I don’t care about my image. You misunderstood my comment and I explained it. You misunderstood a lot more so I explained that too. I made more valid points than your “fuck you” ever did. Now you know. Our conversation can stop here because anything else you don’t understand, you can say so in IM if you really want to know.
  • Vita Lusty I don’t. Thanks.

 

 
1 Comment

Posted by on December 8, 2014 in Janet Marcusse, Things Worth Fighting For

 

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How the Man with the Long Hair Turned into Mr. Grey

Something I wrote back in 2008/02/04. It’s part of a story.

***

The day is clear and beautiful as dewdrops still clung to the blades of grass trampled underfoot by the man who walked carelessly along the unmarked path in the dark woods. He is tall and slim – not skinny but pale, as pale as the creamy surface of the moon that sometimes could be seen in the sky during such a beautiful day as this. His long hair fell right below his waist, tied in a ponytail braid without a source of a tie. Loose strands of hair framed his angular yet long face. His eyes are a dreamy deep chestnut tinged with goldenrod streaks. His thin lips curled into a grin as thoughts of joy danced through his head.

He walked towards the edge of the dark woods, towards the village but not close to it. His destination is somewhere different than neither the quaint shops of arcane and modern delicacies in the midst of the village nor the huge architectural wonders of the city. He took a turn and walked forward, up a grassy hill that sloped more like the side of a deep cliff instead of a small rounded bump. He soon reached a modest residence that stood alone at the top, its white columns holding together two stories of which were painted bright white but had aged to an almost dirty speckled white where some patches of the house were covered with more dirt than the rest. The house had no windows visible and no entrances or exits save a door that stood in between two post classical columns.

He stepped up to the door and slightly raped three times, pausing to speculate whether the owner is home or not before lifting his hand to rap again. Suddenly, the door opened and he peered into the dimly lit home as his hand paused in mid air, waiting to rap again at the door.

Another man, a taller man with blonde hair and flaming green eyes looked at him nervously while tapping an irritated foot against the hardwood floor. “Yes?” He asked, raising an eyebrow in question of the man on his doorstep.

The first man mumbled a few words audible only to those within an arm’s reach and the owner of the residence opened the door wider and allowed him entry. The door shut behind as the first man walked inside with a smile, his mouth chattering and continuing on the conversation.

It is nearly dusk now and all around is quiet. No noisy beetles or chirping crickets abounded. The very beginnings of stars appeared overhead along with the moon to light the way for travelers but the house stood motionless. Then the door opened and the man with the long hair walked out, a look of satisfaction plastered on his face as he dragged behind him a huge mahogany box. The door shut itself as the man past and it once more stood still, resembling a sleeping giant.

The man walked the same way he had come and through the dark woods he ventured. The night sky changed the shadows of the woods and an eerie dread replaced the look of happiness on the man’s face. He is nervous now, glancing around at every stir within the woods; beads of sweat started to form on his face as he walked forward. The soft click of a tree branch or an old tree limb that cracked underneath the weight of a passing critter stopped him in his tracks. He stood still and cold, with the passing of the breeze, as a statue in the middle of the dark woods. His eyes scanned his surroundings, terrified of what he should find. A moment passed. Then more and more time passed and no creepy shadow came to pester him. He moved slowly and walked, his pace quickening as if he is silently being chased by some unseen presence.

The edge of the box hit against an ancient tree as the man stopped and from behind the tree, pulled out a shovel. The moistness of the dirt made it easy to scoop out and pile beside the roots of the tree. The rain the night before drenched the earth and made it easier for the man to dig deep and fast. It didn’t take very long until he dug enough and seeing that, he laid the shovel against the side of the tree as he shoved the box into the hole. It hit the bottom of the hole with a thud, a soft sound that barely could be heard but was rather felt by the swaying of the contents inside.

Reaching down, his fingers gently clasp the silver chain and ran it through thumb and forefinger, feeling the smoothness of the chain. His fingers stopped momentarily to outline the detail of the charm before he caught a glimpse of green.

The man with the green eyes stared intently at him, those bright green eyes flaming with anger. The man with the long hair bent down over the box with a casual grin. He bent down closer into the box to unclasp the necklace and as he did so, the man with the green eyes whispered something into his ear. He shrieked back from the box as if in pain and the flames within the green eyes of the man in the box burned into the depths of his soul. He gripped his head in agony and fell onto the ground, gasping for air.

It was a moment before it all faded and the man with the long hair stood up once more. He took the necklace and stuffed it into his pocket, a silver necklace with a silver charm. He laughed at the man in the box. The man with the green eyes was tied at the wrists and ankles with heavy rope. Although his mouth was not gagged, he did not speak. He only stared with unblinking eyes.

The man with the long hair spat into the box three times, took the shovel and poured dirt back into the box, starting from the foot of the box and working his way up to the face of the man with the green eyes. As he lifted the shovel high in the air, heaping full of rich black earth, he grinned at the man with the green eyes – those flaming green eyes which were all bright and vibrant looked back a lifeless and dull green, cloudy and weary. The man hesitated before tipping the shovel over to pour dirt on top of the man in the box. He heaved dirt back and forth, filling up the box and soon, filling up the hole that he had dug. He patted the earth with the backside of the shovel once his task is finished and smiled to himself; a hand deep into the inner reaches of his pocket, fingers intertwined with chain and charm. He threw the shovel behind the tree and spat three more times on the freshly buried grave. Satisfied, he began to walk away from the grave, the box, the tree, and the memories of the man with the green eyes. He walked farther and farther until it all disappeared behind him, nothing more than a forgotten memory that is too forgotten to be remembered.

He walked until he reached the edge of the woods and saw the shadowed outline of the village ahead. Stepping forward, he is thrown back into the woods by unseen hands. His body throbbed and convulsed until he is so distorted that he did not know which arm was where and which foot was there. The pain spasms down his body from head to toe in great waves of anguish and he cried out horribly. His eyes burned and he longed to dig them out of the sockets if he could find a way to signal a hand to will itself towards his face. Tears ran down his cheeks and his endless screams of agony went unheard.

When it was all over, he laid in a heap in the woods, a meter from the edge of the village path. His head was bent underneath his back, broken oddly to one side while his legs twisted and curled here and there. His arms were twisted in unnatural positions and his eyes glistened with tears as the chain in his pocket is still clutched safely in one hand. Death is only a small thing but for him, the necklace had brought him more than death; it brought him the loss of his freedom.

Those big brown eyes rolled back into his head and as the whites appeared, his eyes closed on its own. His body stiffened and his mind ran away to dance with the nymphs of the distant waterfall. Death took him, in those clawed hands, and carried him away on threads of wispy blackness.

A moment later, the man with the long hair blinked. His fingers slowly – and painfully – lifted his legs from on top of his arms. He managed somehow to untwist himself, to bend into place what was bent out of place, and to snap his head back into its rightful position. He muttered as he sat on the cold earth; holding both his hands before his eyes, he tested each finger to see if they worked.

Cursing, he got up and walked towards the path again, towards the edge of the village. With one foot brushing the outside of the dark woods, in mid step, he is thrown back with such force that he landed somewhere that he did not recognize. He cringed at the sound of something broken as he hit the dirt floor. He found himself okay although he is not spared the pain from impacting the earth. He bent his foot back into place and reconnected his spine, muttering curses into the darkness. Somewhere in the night, he could hear the man with the green eyes laughing at him. He cursed the man with the green eyes and tried to find his way back to the edge of the dark woods. He began walking, only to find himself amongst moving shadows and nothing more. He came to the conclusion after several attempts that he is lost; not only lost but damned as well.

 ***

It is past dark now and she worried about him. She sat upon the white loveseat, her legs tucked neatly under he tiny frame. She sips freshly brewed hot tea made from the pink and purple tea flowers that bloomed on the top of the still lake, nestled in the woods, hidden behind rock and waterfall. She brought the teacup to her lips, two fingers resting on the tiny handle, and took a sip or two. The hot liquid warms her as it passed through her throat. She sat still; the only movement came from the steady lifting of the teacup.  Her eyes glance out the living room bay windows often as she hoped to catch sight of him walking towards her front door. Her long black hair hung down her shoulders and spread itself upon the brocaded loveseat.

This is not the first time that he has been late but he has never been this late before. She thought back to their last conversation and was lost deep in thought when there came a knock at the door. Time had passed and it is late morning when he arrived. She got up slowly, deliberately, and set her teacup upon the saucer that rested at the edge of a thick cherry oak table. She did not rush but glided towards the door with a smile on her face, thinking of how she would hug him instead of scold him for worrying her so. She is happy enough that he is safe and sound.

The door opened and she looked at him a moment, a bit confused and a bit bothered by the way he looked. His clothes carried dirt in almost every crevice and fold; somewhere along the way, he needed a shower badly. The smell of damp earth clung to him and she guided him upstairs to use her bathroom instead of turning him around to go home. When he finished and came downstairs with the new clothes that she had set out for him, she set out a second cup of tea for him on the table. He found her sitting on the sofa, her eyes smiling at him while she sips hot tea from her own cup.

He sat himself down beside her, not too close and not too far. He thanked her and took a big gulp of tea, a bit clumsily of manners, before whispering to her. He whispered of things unknown, things that made her eyes grow wide with fright. She caught herself before she screamed at his words. Her voice fell to into a broken whisper as she asked him where he had been and what he had been doing. He shook his head at her then fumbled with something in his pocket. She drew back from him, anticipating whether she should jump out of harm’s way or whether she would faint at what he brought forward.

With sad eyes, he withdrew a thing from his pocket, holding it in a closed hand; he held it out to her. She strained to see inside his hand but she could not see past his fingers and she longed to see what it is that he would show her. His fingers opened, palm up, and she saw a shiny thing in his grasp. Tears filled her eyes and she clasped the shiny object in her own palm and recognized it to be her own. She couldn’t stop the tears and she fell against the loveseat sobbing. Her hands still clutched the object, pulling it towards her heart as he leaned in to hold her and comfort her. Through tears, she drew away from him and bid him to leave. He hesitated before nodding his head low and showed himself out the door.

She lay on her side against the cushions of the sofa, her legs drawn up towards her chest, pressing against the hurt and pain. Her sobs softened to quiet whimpers. She could hear him leaving, walking away from her house back into the dark woods. She did not move. The day passed and morning came but she had neither gotten up from the sofa nor did her daily chores around the small house. She can hear the garden whisper and scream for her but she did not answer. She can hear him back again, on her doorstep, steadily knocking and she still did not answer. He left after seeing that she would not come. But the next day passed the same way. The same voices heard, the same knocking, the same screaming in her ears. She drowned the noise out with her own crying, coming from deep within her.

The house felt empty and she felt alone. Lying, she found herself escaping into dreams – dreams of now distant memories that faded too fast for her to grasp a hold of. Even in sleep, tears rolled down, wetting the expensive upholstery as she wandered away from reality into the space in between. She did not venture outside, nor did she venture into her garden where the weeds took root, overtaking her crops. Wild vines climbed and settled themselves over her house in tight overlapping rows. For a year, everything stayed the same. For two years, no one has seen a trace of her. The flowers that once grew in her garden and filled the yard with a sweet fragrance shriveled and died underneath the thick carpet of weeds and vines. Three years passed and she is forgotten; time passed and it continued until the dark woods swallowed her home and her garden. There is no presence of anything inhabitable as the woods reclaimed a part of itself that had once been infected but now healed.

***

Ameggo, that charming child with the curly brown hair, stared up at Maeroleez and grinned. His master is happy and as long as his master is happy, he too is content. They entered a home in the middle of the dark woods and as soon as the door shut, he could feel a change in the atmosphere. Ameggo stopped talking of his adventures with his only friend Keera and watched silently at his owner.

Maeroleez stood quiet by the door for a moment and when he turned around, Ameggo – frightened by the gleam in his eyes – backed into a corner of the house, crawling underneath the ragged quilted cover that he slept with. The man came swiftly and grabbed the child by the throat with one hand and held him up against the wall. The child struggled but he could not free himself from the tight grasp. He dared not try to claw his master’s hands if he valued his life.

Those big amber brown eyes welled up with tears as Maeroleez tightened his grip around the child’s neck. Ameggo pleaded and begged but the man only lifted him higher, laughing, watching the child struggle to no avail. Ameggo watched as his master’s other hand balled into a fist and struck hard against his own left cheek. Pain swept through him and Maeroleez, watching him in pain, the big teardrops streaming down his face, only made his want to hurt the child increase. The man felt stronger, more powerful than the child who desperately tried to free himself from his owner’s clutches. He hit Ameggo again and again, each time, the child cried out in pain, satisfying the man’s twisted lust.

He slammed the child into the far corner. Ameggo hit the wall with a thud, sliding down, hitting the wooden floor with another loud thud. He watched as the child whimpered and curled himself into a ball in that corner of the house; soft choking sobs came as he walked towards the child.

His hand touched Ameggo’s shoulder and the child jumped back afraid. In a pleasing voice, he coaxed the child into his arms. He gently rocked the patted the child’s head.

“Hush now.” He whispered as Ameggo clutched tightly to him, still sobbing. “It hurts me so much more to hurt you. I have told you before not to destroy her things. Please listen dear Ameggo. Hurting you hurts me so much more and I don’t even want to hurt you to begin with.”

He held the child and rocked him until he stopped sobbing.

“You’ll behave this time, won’t you?”

Ameggo stared into those deep brown eyes, a different color from his own. He nodded his head in agreement.

“Good.” Maeroleez smiled a wide smile at the child. “I’m hungry. Let’s eat!”

 Ameggo smiled too and swallowed the last of his tears. He believed every word that was said to him. He forgot the pain and the hurt; he traded the hatred for happiness as he followed Maeroleez into the kitchen. All the while, Maeroleez chattered in laughter and Ameggo laughed along too.

 

 
1 Comment

Posted by on December 5, 2014 in Stories, Unfinished Stories

 

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Salvation and How it’s Not Merely a Christian Thing

Thanks to my good friend John, this journal entry is for you. ^_^

Last night, I discovered the truth about Rebecca Brown MD, author of He Came to Set the Captives Free and Prepare For War. It was disheartening because I believed what I read some odd six years ago when I was given a copy of the late 80’s published books to read.

He Came to Set the Captives Free and Prepare for War recounted the story of how Rebecca Brown, a doctor then, met with Elaine, a satanist and proclaimed bride of Satan, and saved her from the clutches of the wicked one.

My thoughts are pretty much said down below on a status post on Facebook which is below with permission from John for his comments.

Xao Thao feeling disappointed
10 hrs ·

I don’t think I can name one christian living today that is actually a real christian. It’s sad. All the things I believed in were simply exaggerated lies told by people with problems, much like myself. We all need help, but God, don’t offer it to people when you can’t fix yourself.

  • John Behrent Don’t try to be a good Christian, just try to be a good person.
    5 hrs · Unlike · 1
  • Xao Thao That defeats the whole point for me, John. However, I’ll keep trying as I go. I know I’m very far from anywhere “good”.

     

  • John Behrent Well, it may be time to look for a different point, then. Life’s all about change. We often get led in directions we don’t expect.
    2 hrs · Unlike · 1
  • Xao Thao Mortal men cannot corrupt what is holy. I like my God. Thanks.
  • John Behrent Change isn’t always about corruption. Just take it from someone who’s walked a lot of strange roads, noone can see all ends. And if your God can, he’s not giving out spoilers.
    2 hrs · Unlike · 1
  • Xao Thao It’s not about change. It’s about having something tangible to hold on to. When you don’t have anything physically real you can point to or hold on to, then it’s all about faith and believing in the impossible.I read two very old books by a Rebecca Brown MD called, “He Came to Set the Captives Free” and “Prepare for War”. They’re Christian books published in the late 80’s detailing how Rebecca Brown met and saved a “Bride of Satan” named Elaine. Satanists, as I know now instead of from back then, is a lot watered down, which probably made me believe the books even more because way back in history, people were much, much more intertwined with their faiths no matter what that faith was. You had sacrifices. I mean, seriously, no one does that anymore…to an extent. But that’s what I meant, people were passionate back then and they showed that passion through actions.Anyhow, those books were a foundation on a belief I held for a very long time, the belief that not all the lost were damned forever. Granted, I know I’m not any different from any pagan or occultist or wiccan or satanist because I know my faults and I know why I continue to sin, but there was hope that somewhere along the way, if one person could be saved through this whole event, it would be worth dying and being damned myself right now for that one person.I know that probably doesn’t even make a lot of sense, but I believed there was a reason why I I know what I know and that that knowledge could one day help someone which makes it all worth the while. Rebecca and Elaine were like me and my friend Keera. We were both delusional in our fantasies of a world beyond whichever one there was and while she lived it in her dreams, I lived it while awake because I was weird and I did weird things like that. Rebecca abused Elaine plenty, being a doctor who no longer is a doctor now, but much of their testimonies were simple fantasies created by the both of them, and oddly enough, there’s some homosexuality that comes into light in their real lives. While me and Keera didn’t spread our madness beyond ourselves, we were still mad, and for a good long while too. That was like a decade of my life there.

    There were people in my life I truly believed God wanted me to help and I did as much as I could. I remember telling someone once, “when God answers all your prayers, you can be sure that it’s God anymore”. And even with that, I held on to the belief that people were worth saving for. That is was quality over quantity. But the fact is, we all suck. We’re all the same. So what good is quality when it isn’t there to be found? There is no one person greater than the next and no one person who is much more worthy of being saved than the next. The only thing that distinguishes someone saved from someone unsaved, is that the saved person said yes to Jesus Christ. Albeit, that yes could simply just be a lie in itself as well.

    I don’t know anymore, but I do know that I’ve been everywhere else and nothing filled the empty hole inside of me. It is Christ who saved me and I’m happy with Him whether I understand anything or not. I simply wanted to see Christ in the world too, but that’s pretty much impossible.

  • Xao Thao This needs to be a journal entry.
  • John Behrent Xao, be attentive and you’ll realize that LIFE is about change.
  • Xao Thao I do change, John. I change every day. Change, however, doesn’t mean being indecisive and running after the first thing that excites you when your truths no longer work for you. Faith, to me, isn’t a fleeting fancy that I chase after anymore whenever it suits my whim. I used to do that when I was empty. I used to try and find things to fill that vast abyssal emptiness inside. I’m okay now. I’m not empty. I’m merely just a bit disappointed in myself and in humanity as a whole. And yet, I know there are still people worth saving, even those who don’t believe they can be saved. You don’t have to be a Christian to want salvation. Some simply want to be saved from the monsters that they are.
  • John Behrent That’s an interesting view of it all. Might be the start of a really insightful blog.
  • Xao Thao It is! And it’s dedicated to you! With that being said, this is all going in my blog if you have no objections. I’m always good for debates.
  • John Behrent No, that’s fine. Go ahead.
  • Xao Thao You’re awesome! Thanks!
  • John Behrent I just try to make my little corner of the world a little brighter. If I sometimes challenge all the God talk, it’s just in the name of spirited debate to encourage thought, not rudeness.
  • Xao Thao I’m abnormal. Rudeness is making fun of someone or bullying them, not questioning someone’s belief and trying to understand them or trying to make them understand that they know why they believe. I find it interesting that most people don’t even have a clue as to why they follow a certain faith. It’s kind of sad really. Just sheep to the slaughter. It’s always good to encourage thought, whether for your benefit or someone else’s.

What is very interesting is that near the end of this conversation on Facebook, I commented that salvation isn’t only for Christians, that some want to save themselves from the horrors that they are. It makes for a good blog entry, and it’s true. Salvation isn’t simply a Christian thing. Everyone wants to be saved in some way, shape, or form.

I’ll write a different post about it later. I’m about to be very busy. Later.

 

 
2 Comments

Posted by on December 1, 2014 in Book Reviews, Diary

 

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