I thought tonight that it'd be about time I remake my old, little journal thread of the Shlog from months prior on here. Miscellaneous writings, writings of my life experiences, or other oddities of my fascinations will be posted in here. "Random thoughts," in brief.
Baqqrih's Journal
- Thread starter baqqrih
- Start date
- Joined
- Apr 21, 2025
- Messages
- 228
Currently, my life does not feel very good (not to say that I don't think it is meant to be this way). With the end of this school year has come the departure of many of my acquaintances--and of my dearest one--from my school and local area. I have been left quite alone for the summer, and have not gotten over her absence, either. The sweet feeling of my last hug with her still lives fondly in my memory, as if it's a drunken squatter living in an attic (it just won't leave). I don't expect to talk about her much further on here, albeit, for my own sake of emotional stability. My best friend is Jesus, and at least I have Him to talk with. Besides, with Him, I'm certain I'll make it through all of this, so at least that's something.
Beyond my current social and mental state, where speaking about it in much further detail would surpass the limits of proper Christian humility ("woe to me, I have no friends, wah wah wah", you get it already), I've been thinking even more about my sister, and I recalled an old memory of a story my father told me back when I was fourteen that regarded her short life and that only really strengthens the hatred I have for the world-of-now the more I think back on his words.
Whenever my sister had passed to The Lord's mercy from within my mother's womb, my parents had to visit a clinic in order for the corpse to be removed from my mother. This establishment happened to specialize in abortions. Though the physical experience of carrying a dead infant was already grueling enough for dear mom, a younger woman sitting next to her, belly subtly bulging with her own child, had asked my mother jokingly "Not ready for kids yet, either?" It was a horrid assumption, and my mother then broke down in tears in the arms of my father, in that dreadful waiting room. In praise of my father, I would not have been able to restrain myself from beating that damned killer-witch if I had heard that dastardly utterance be spoken towards my weeping wife. May God strike that bitch down to the utmost amount of shame and repentance for her crimes, for she spurted out the blood of her children with her actions and then mocked their lives with her foul tongue, and even spoke of my own sister's life as if it were a speck of dirt to be flicked from a coat!
I hate the world. There is very little that I'm able to look forward to in this mortal existence and in these moments, but, really, that is good. Even as I have no good plan for my mortal future (maybe I'll come up with something eventually), I long for the day that I will comfort my dear sister in the heavens. That only means I must continue to suffer here for the sake of God until He takes me to her, and clearly, because He has not taken me now, I am not yet worthy of that pleasure, so all of these solitudinous tears must continue for as long as He guides me in this existence, hallelujah.
Beyond my current social and mental state, where speaking about it in much further detail would surpass the limits of proper Christian humility ("woe to me, I have no friends, wah wah wah", you get it already), I've been thinking even more about my sister, and I recalled an old memory of a story my father told me back when I was fourteen that regarded her short life and that only really strengthens the hatred I have for the world-of-now the more I think back on his words.
Whenever my sister had passed to The Lord's mercy from within my mother's womb, my parents had to visit a clinic in order for the corpse to be removed from my mother. This establishment happened to specialize in abortions. Though the physical experience of carrying a dead infant was already grueling enough for dear mom, a younger woman sitting next to her, belly subtly bulging with her own child, had asked my mother jokingly "Not ready for kids yet, either?" It was a horrid assumption, and my mother then broke down in tears in the arms of my father, in that dreadful waiting room. In praise of my father, I would not have been able to restrain myself from beating that damned killer-witch if I had heard that dastardly utterance be spoken towards my weeping wife. May God strike that bitch down to the utmost amount of shame and repentance for her crimes, for she spurted out the blood of her children with her actions and then mocked their lives with her foul tongue, and even spoke of my own sister's life as if it were a speck of dirt to be flicked from a coat!
I hate the world. There is very little that I'm able to look forward to in this mortal existence and in these moments, but, really, that is good. Even as I have no good plan for my mortal future (maybe I'll come up with something eventually), I long for the day that I will comfort my dear sister in the heavens. That only means I must continue to suffer here for the sake of God until He takes me to her, and clearly, because He has not taken me now, I am not yet worthy of that pleasure, so all of these solitudinous tears must continue for as long as He guides me in this existence, hallelujah.