I stand at the edge of philosophy’s abyss, and it calls to me. Its questions—vast as starlit skies, sharp as a blade—cut through the quiet of my mind. Why am I here? What is real? What holds meaning when the world feels like a fleeting shadow? Each inquiry is a thread, spiraling, twisting, weaving a
“Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moths and vermin destroy, and where thieves break in and steal. But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven… For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.”— Matthew 6:19-21 (NIV)As I reflect on the words of my own heart poured into verse,
I woke to a shadow in my room, my own face staring back, twisted with a grin that wasn’t mine. It held my gun, accusing me: “You thought you could embody the essence of wrath’s?” Its words cut deep, naming “friends” I’d killed—lives I’d ended or betrayed in moments I can’t unmake. Jean-Paul Sartre’s words
Some moments in life feel like they’ve been woven into the fabric of the universe, perfectly timed and undeniably sacred. I stumbled into one such moment not long ago, when the winding grapevine of life—those serendipitous threads of chance—led me to her. Her name is Halle, and from the instant I met her, I knew
In my youth, a seed was planted, cold and unrelenting, deep within my heart. It grew as I did, twisting me into a figure I liken to Michael Myers—a silent, unyielding archetype of destruction. I didn’t fight it; I let it consume me. That seed bloomed into a lascivious hunger, a monstrous drive that’s left
“Triumph Over Circumstance: Stoicism Fuels My Soul”
When I say, “This system can’t kill my vibe,” I’m claiming a strength that runs deeper than the chaos around me. The system—be it the 9-to-5 grind, societal pressure, or life’s relentless demands—tries to crush me, but I stand firm. Marcus Aurelius, the Stoic emperor, would nod at this: he wrote in Meditations, “You have power over your mind—not outside events. Realize this, and you will find strength.” My vibe, my creative spark, is untouchable unless I let it be. Psalm 46:1 echoes in my heart: “God is our refuge and strength, an ever-present help in trouble.” That’s my resilience of spirit—a Stoic and spiritual fortress no system can breach. Searching for how to stay strong under pressure? This is my secret.
Triumph Over Circumstance: Stoicism Fuels My Soul
The system’s weight is real—I’ve felt it press down, threatening to dim my light. But I channel Stoicism’s wisdom: external forces can chain my body, not my soul. Epictetus, another Stoic, taught that it’s not what happens to me, but how I respond that matters. My vibe persists, a creative vitality that laughs in the face of oppression. It’s more than survival—it’s triumph. I lean on John 16:33: “In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.” Jesus’s words fuel my endurance, blending with Stoic grit. If you’re researching “Stoic inner strength” or ways to keep your spirit alive, I’m living proof—circumstance bends, but I don’t break.
Creative Will: My Resilience Redefines Me
Before this, the system nearly won—my artistic soul flickered, almost snuffed out. Yet here I am, vibe intact, a testament to will over wreckage. Stoicism says I control my inner citadel, and I’ve rebuilt mine with every brushstroke, every word. Romans 5:3-4 guides me: “We glory in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope.” That’s my journey—suffering forged resilience, and resilience birthed hope. The system’s a shadow now, powerless against my spirit. Looking for “spiritual endurance scriptures” or how to protect your creative spark? I’ve learned this: my vibe, my essence, is mine to guard—and it’s stronger than ever.
I stand at the edge of philosophy’s abyss, and it calls to me. Its questions—vast as starlit skies, sharp as a blade—cut through the quiet of my mind. Why am I here? What is real? What holds meaning when the world feels like a fleeting shadow? Each inquiry is a thread, spiraling, twisting, weaving a
“Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moths and vermin destroy, and where thieves break in and steal. But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven… For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.”— Matthew 6:19-21 (NIV)As I reflect on the words of my own heart poured into verse,
I woke to a shadow in my room, my own face staring back, twisted with a grin that wasn’t mine. It held my gun, accusing me: “You thought you could embody the essence of wrath’s?” Its words cut deep, naming “friends” I’d killed—lives I’d ended or betrayed in moments I can’t unmake. Jean-Paul Sartre’s words
Some moments in life feel like they’ve been woven into the fabric of the universe, perfectly timed and undeniably sacred. I stumbled into one such moment not long ago, when the winding grapevine of life—those serendipitous threads of chance—led me to her. Her name is Halle, and from the instant I met her, I knew
In my youth, a seed was planted, cold and unrelenting, deep within my heart. It grew as I did, twisting me into a figure I liken to Michael Myers—a silent, unyielding archetype of destruction. I didn’t fight it; I let it consume me. That seed bloomed into a lascivious hunger, a monstrous drive that’s left
In this poem, I’m reflecting on my own journey with a mix of confidence and self-awareness. I start by admitting that I’ve got a clear grasp of who I am—plenty of understanding about myself—and I’m upfront about the fact that I don’t see myself as the best-looking guy you’d spot wandering around in the daylight. I’m no head-turner, and I’m fine with that. But then the tone shifts as I dive into what’s changed. Those women who used to laugh at me, who’d poke fun at my expense, they’re the same ones now falling for my words. It’s like my poetry and creativity have flipped the script—they can’t resist the pull of what I craft.
I’ve got this knack now for drawing in these refined, elegant women, the classy types, and it’s become almost a compulsion for me, a kind of restless drive. I lure them in, pulling them into what I call my “poisonous chamber”—this intense, intoxicating space where my poems come alive, fuelled by raw passion. It’s not just about seduction for the sake of it; it’s the act of creating, of pouring myself into those lines, that hooks them. The poem’s got this edge of triumph, like I’ve turned the tables, and what once held me back is now the very thing that gives me power.
I stand at the edge of philosophy’s abyss, and it calls to me. Its questions—vast as starlit skies, sharp as a blade—cut through the quiet of my mind. Why am I here? What is real? What holds meaning when the world feels like a fleeting shadow? Each inquiry is a thread, spiraling, twisting, weaving a
“Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moths and vermin destroy, and where thieves break in and steal. But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven… For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.”— Matthew 6:19-21 (NIV)As I reflect on the words of my own heart poured into verse,
I woke to a shadow in my room, my own face staring back, twisted with a grin that wasn’t mine. It held my gun, accusing me: “You thought you could embody the essence of wrath’s?” Its words cut deep, naming “friends” I’d killed—lives I’d ended or betrayed in moments I can’t unmake. Jean-Paul Sartre’s words
Some moments in life feel like they’ve been woven into the fabric of the universe, perfectly timed and undeniably sacred. I stumbled into one such moment not long ago, when the winding grapevine of life—those serendipitous threads of chance—led me to her. Her name is Halle, and from the instant I met her, I knew
In my youth, a seed was planted, cold and unrelenting, deep within my heart. It grew as I did, twisting me into a figure I liken to Michael Myers—a silent, unyielding archetype of destruction. I didn’t fight it; I let it consume me. That seed bloomed into a lascivious hunger, a monstrous drive that’s left
I find myself drawn to this blazing force within me—my “fiery fire”—a restless, burning energy that I crave to awaken fully. It’s as if I’m seeking to dissolve the frost encasing my heart, a coldness I’ve carried too long, tucked away in a place I call the “void less dark.” That phrase feels right to me—a shadow not pitch-black, but muted, a half-lit emptiness where I’ve lingered, neither lost nor found. Philosophers like Heraclitus might see this fire as my life’s constant flux, a heat that promises to reshape me if I let it.
But there’s a tension I can’t ignore. This fire I tend, this soul I ignite—it’s fleeting. A bonfire roars only as long as I feed it, and my cold heart, my void, they hover close, ready to reclaim me. I wonder if this is what Sartre meant by crafting meaning in the face of nothing—a refusal to let the dark win. Or maybe it’s Nietzsche’s voice I hear, urging me to embrace this cycle of melting and burning, to affirm myself again and again. I’m caught in that dance, desiring my own renewal, holding my soul’s light steady against the shadows I know too well.
I stand at the edge of philosophy’s abyss, and it calls to me. Its questions—vast as starlit skies, sharp as a blade—cut through the quiet of my mind. Why am I here? What is real? What holds meaning when the world feels like a fleeting shadow? Each inquiry is a thread, spiraling, twisting, weaving a
“Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moths and vermin destroy, and where thieves break in and steal. But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven… For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.”— Matthew 6:19-21 (NIV)As I reflect on the words of my own heart poured into verse,
I woke to a shadow in my room, my own face staring back, twisted with a grin that wasn’t mine. It held my gun, accusing me: “You thought you could embody the essence of wrath’s?” Its words cut deep, naming “friends” I’d killed—lives I’d ended or betrayed in moments I can’t unmake. Jean-Paul Sartre’s words
Some moments in life feel like they’ve been woven into the fabric of the universe, perfectly timed and undeniably sacred. I stumbled into one such moment not long ago, when the winding grapevine of life—those serendipitous threads of chance—led me to her. Her name is Halle, and from the instant I met her, I knew
In my youth, a seed was planted, cold and unrelenting, deep within my heart. It grew as I did, twisting me into a figure I liken to Michael Myers—a silent, unyielding archetype of destruction. I didn’t fight it; I let it consume me. That seed bloomed into a lascivious hunger, a monstrous drive that’s left
I find myself drawn to this blazing force within me—my “fiery fire”—a restless, burning energy that I crave to awaken fully. It’s as if I’m seeking to dissolve the frost encasing my heart, a coldness I’ve carried too long, tucked away in a place I call the “void less dark.” That phrase feels right to me—a shadow not pitch-black, but muted, a half-lit emptiness where I’ve lingered, neither lost nor found. Philosophers like Heraclitus might see this fire as my life’s constant flux, a heat that promises to reshape me if I let it.
But there’s a tension I can’t ignore. This fire I tend, this soul I ignite—it’s fleeting. A bonfire roars only as long as I feed it, and my cold heart, my void, they hover close, ready to reclaim me. I wonder if this is what Sartre meant by crafting meaning in the face of nothing—a refusal to let the dark win. Or maybe it’s Nietzsche’s voice I hear, urging me to embrace this cycle of melting and burning, to affirm myself again and again. I’m caught in that dance, desiring my own renewal, holding my soul’s light steady against the shadows I know too well.
I stand at the edge of philosophy’s abyss, and it calls to me. Its questions—vast as starlit skies, sharp as a blade—cut through the quiet of my mind. Why am I here? What is real? What holds meaning when the world feels like a fleeting shadow? Each inquiry is a thread, spiraling, twisting, weaving a
“Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moths and vermin destroy, and where thieves break in and steal. But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven… For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.”— Matthew 6:19-21 (NIV)As I reflect on the words of my own heart poured into verse,
I woke to a shadow in my room, my own face staring back, twisted with a grin that wasn’t mine. It held my gun, accusing me: “You thought you could embody the essence of wrath’s?” Its words cut deep, naming “friends” I’d killed—lives I’d ended or betrayed in moments I can’t unmake. Jean-Paul Sartre’s words
Some moments in life feel like they’ve been woven into the fabric of the universe, perfectly timed and undeniably sacred. I stumbled into one such moment not long ago, when the winding grapevine of life—those serendipitous threads of chance—led me to her. Her name is Halle, and from the instant I met her, I knew
In my youth, a seed was planted, cold and unrelenting, deep within my heart. It grew as I did, twisting me into a figure I liken to Michael Myers—a silent, unyielding archetype of destruction. I didn’t fight it; I let it consume me. That seed bloomed into a lascivious hunger, a monstrous drive that’s left
The Sixth Tread from “Call Me A.C Green..(Poem): “Virginity as a Gift: Building Integrity for My Future Wife”
“One DM from a girl resembling Vanity… My sex drive is packaged as a gift for my future wifey.” That’s the line I walk—a fleeting temptation in my inbox, a spark that could ignite my sex drive, yet a choice to hold it back. Virginity isn’t just a status for me; it’s a gift, something I’m shaping with every “no” I say to the now, saving it for my future wife. A message pops up, her words dripping with allure like Vanity, the singer whose beauty once captivated the world. But I scroll past, not because I’m immune, but because integrity matters more. Kant’s principle whispers in my ear, and scripture seals it: “Husbands, love your wives, just as Christ loved the church” (Ephesians 5:25). My virginity is a promise, a piece of me I’m building for her.
Temptation’s Knock
Temptation doesn’t come with a warning label—it slips in quietly, like that DM lighting up my phone. She’s not just a name; she’s a mirror of Vanity—stunning, magnetic, a test of my resolve. My sex drive kicks in, a natural pulse I can’t deny. I could reply, let the conversation flow, see where it leads. No one would know. But I stop myself. Not out of fear, but out of something deeper—a principle I’ve chosen to live by. That moment isn’t just about resisting; it’s about building, stacking another brick of integrity for the man I want to be.
Vanity’s allure fades when I think of what’s ahead. Temptation promises a thrill, but it’s fleeting—a sugar rush that leaves me empty. My sex drive isn’t the enemy; it’s a force I’m channeling, a gift I’m wrapping up for someone I haven’t met yet. One swipe, one reply, could unravel that, but I’d rather hold it together for her.
Integrity Over Impulse
Integrity isn’t loud—it’s steady, a quiet strength that grows every time I choose the long game over the short one. Kant, the philosopher, talked about the categorical imperative: act in a way you’d want to be universal, a rule for everyone. For me, that’s what virginity becomes—a principle, not just a personal quirk. I’m not saving it because it’s easy; I’m saving it because it’s right, because I’d want my future wife to trust me with her whole self too. It’s a standard I set for myself, a way of living that says my word, my body, my soul—they all mean something.
This isn’t about shutting down my sex drive—it’s about giving it purpose. That DM might stir it up, but integrity keeps it in check. I’m not perfect; some days, the temptation feels like a tug-of-war. But every time I walk away, I’m stronger, more the man I want her to find when the time comes.
Scripture’s Blueprint
Scripture gives me the why behind the what. Ephesians 5:25 isn’t just a verse—it’s a vision: “Husbands, love your wives, just as Christ loved the church and gave himself up for her.” That’s the kind of love I’m preparing for—sacrificial, selfless, all-in. My virginity isn’t a badge of pride; it’s a piece of that giving, a way I’m starting now to love her like Christ loved. It’s not about rules—it’s about relationship, about showing up for her with something pure and whole.
Then there’s Proverbs 4:23: “Keep your heart with all vigilance, for from it flow the springs of life.” My heart’s where this battle plays out—where temptation meets integrity, where my sex drive meets my faith. Guarding it isn’t passive; it’s active, a choice to protect what flows from it. That DM could crack the door open, but Proverbs tells me to lock it tight—not out of paranoia, but out of care for what I’m building.
A Gift Worth Waiting For
Virginity as a gift isn’t a cliché to me—it’s real. It’s not just about my body; it’s about my character, my commitment, the way I’m shaping myself for my future wife. That girl like Vanity? She’s a shadow, a flicker of now. My future wife is the flame I’m saving this for—a love I haven’t seen yet but believe in enough to wait for. My sex drive isn’t wasted; it’s packaged, tied with the ribbon of integrity, ready for the day it’s hers.
This gift isn’t about denying myself—it’s about defining myself. Every temptation I turn from is a step toward her, a piece of trust I’m earning before we even meet. Kant’s principle keeps me honest; scripture keeps me hopeful. Together, they turn my virginity into something active, not passive—a choice I make for love.
The Man I’ll Be
So I let that DM sit unanswered, not because I’m better than anyone, but because I’m building something bigger. My future wife deserves a man who’s wrestled with temptation and won, not by luck, but by principle. My sex drive is hers, a gift I’m keeping safe with every “no” I say today. Vanity can’t sway me—not when integrity’s my compass and faith’s my guide.
On life’s court, I’m still A.C. Green—sharp, steadfast, unashamed. My virginity isn’t a burden; it’s a promise, a piece of me I’m crafting for her, day by day.
LifeandTimelessart 