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The Fuel


Flashbaacks told me every day of my mistakes, labelling me with the world's hatred. The soul ties felt recent and their curses felt like skin. It pulled me below the Earth and I needed to escape. What fault did this survivor do that called those sadists into action, because the wounds felt so deep marking me for the grave.


The psalms told me to wait patiently on the Lord, and to delight in Him. What else could I do besides so? I fear God, because He allowed the suffering. I question the greater purpose and I question His love, yet I longed for His words as if an unquenchable thirst that sought wisdom all throughout my life.


I wished wrong choices was never my mistake, but cast the first stone O thy righteous ones. Let not thy mouth utter judgement against me. 


Trusting, I shall lead a peaceful life, expecting nothing, surrendering everything. Must I ask for the world's permission? To choose sovereignty for my own freedom and justice? I shall write forever, even till death because His trust on my writing has always been worth more than their crimes. 


Perhaps one day, the world trusts survivors and their stories, and let justice be upheld. The intrinsic choice has to be made real, to trust the victim, and not the perpetrator.


The cliff hanger called my life felt scary at times, because I went through the worst of times, yet still expecting the best of times. Writing was my saving grace then, and it still is now. I felt it was the only way out, because the devil lurked at every corner, kicking my heels as he watched me stumbled down like a wobbly child.


Sometimes, I wished I had a different life. Sometimes, I wished my life was easier to live. But, still, I am grateful I am alive.


Just write.

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