The Fourth Tread from “Call Me A.C Green..(Poem):
“How Wisdom Keeps Lust at Bay”

“Day and night, listening to the words of the wise keeps my lust deprived.” That’s my shield, my rhythm, my way of holding steady in a world that’s always trying to pull me off course. Lust isn’t just a fleeting urge—it’s a force that creeps in, testing my resolve when I least expect it. But I’ve found a defense: wisdom. Not the fleeting kind that comes and goes, but the deep, steady kind I draw from the words of the wise—mentors, scripture, voices that echo truth. Aristotle saw virtue as a habit, something you build over time, and scripture backs that up: “The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom” (Proverbs 9:10). Day and night, this wisdom shapes my restraint, keeping lust at bay and my soul intact.

Wisdom as My Armor

Lust doesn’t knock politely—it barges in, loud one day, subtle the next. Without something to counter it, I’d be defenseless. That’s where wisdom comes in. It’s not just a collection of smart sayings; it’s armor I put on every day and night. The words of the wise—whether from a trusted friend, a sermon, or the pages of scripture—give me something solid to lean on when temptation starts whispering. I don’t just hear them; I listen, letting them sink in until they’re part of me. That’s how I keep lust deprived—not by willpower alone, but by filling my mind with something stronger.

This isn’t a one-time fix. Day and night means consistency, a rhythm that doesn’t let up. Lust doesn’t take breaks, so neither can I. The wise don’t just tell me what to avoid—they show me what to pursue. Their words aren’t rules; they’re a roadmap to a life where restraint isn’t a burden but a strength.

Aristotle’s Habit of Virtue

Aristotle had it right: virtue isn’t an accident—it’s a habit. He believed that you become what you practice, that goodness takes root through repetition. For me, that’s what wisdom does—it turns restraint into something natural, not forced. Every time I choose the words of the wise over the pull of lust, I’m building that habit. It’s not about being perfect right away; it’s about showing up, day and night, until resisting temptation feels less like a fight and more like who I am.

This fits my battle with lust perfectly. It’s not enough to say “no” once and call it done—lust keeps coming back, testing me in new ways. But Aristotle’s idea gives me hope: the more I practice restraint, the stronger it gets. Wisdom is my training ground. By listening to the wise—those who’ve walked this road before me—I’m not just dodging lust; I’m growing into someone who can stand against it.

Scripture’s Steady Voice

Philosophy lays the groundwork, but scripture brings it home. Proverbs 9:10 says, “The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom.” That’s where it starts for me—not fear like dread, but awe, respect, a sense that there’s something bigger worth living for. This verse isn’t abstract—it’s practical. When I let that reverence guide me, wisdom flows in, pushing lust out. It’s a trade: I give up the cheap thrill of temptation for the deep clarity of a life rooted in something real.

Then there’s Psalm 1:2: “But his delight is in the law of the Lord, and on his law he meditates day and night.” That’s my blueprint. Meditating on scripture isn’t just a ritual—it’s a lifeline. Day and night, I turn to those words, letting them wash over me, crowding out the noise of lust. It’s not passive—it’s active, a choice to fill my mind with truth instead of letting temptation take up space. The wise voices in scripture don’t just warn me about lust—they point me toward joy, purpose, a life that doesn’t need to lean on fleeting desires.

Restraint as a Practice

Restraint isn’t glamorous—it’s quiet, steady work. But wisdom makes it possible. The words of the wise don’t shame me into saying no; they inspire me to want something better. Day and night, I’m reminded that lust promises more than it delivers—quick highs that fade into regret. Wisdom offers the opposite: a slow, sure strength that builds me up. I practice restraint not because I have to, but because I’ve tasted what it’s like to live free of lust’s grip.

This practice takes shape in small ways. When lust stirs, I don’t wrestle it alone—I turn to a verse, a prayer, a lesson I’ve learned from someone wiser. I keep those words close, like a playlist on repeat, so they’re there when I need them. It’s not about shutting down desire—it’s about channeling it toward what lasts.

Day and Night, Lust Deprived

The beauty of this is how it works: wisdom doesn’t just block lust—it starves it. Day and night, I’m feeding my soul with the words of the wise, leaving no room for temptation to take hold. Aristotle’s habit becomes my reality; scripture’s truth becomes my strength. Lust might knock, but it doesn’t get in—not when I’ve got wisdom standing guard.

So I keep listening, keep practicing, keep choosing restraint over chaos. The wise have shown me the way, and I’m walking it—one day, one night at a time. Lust doesn’t stand a chance when wisdom’s got my back.

The third Tread from “Call Me A.C Green..(Poem):
“Battling Lust: Protecting My Eternal Sunshine in a Lustful World”

The third Tread from “Call Me A.C Green..(Poem):
“Battling Lust: Protecting My Eternal Sunshine in a Lustful World

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“Each day, I battle this lustful world, keeping it from blinding my eternal sunshine.” That’s the rhythm of my life—a constant push and pull against a tide of temptation that threatens to dim what matters most. This isn’t a fight I stumble into; it’s a deliberate stand I take every morning when I wake up and every night when I lay my head down. The lustful world is relentless, a storm of desires that swirls around me, but my eternal sunshine—the purity and radiance of my soul—is worth protecting. Plato’s allegory of the cave echoes in my mind here, yet scripture gives me the strength to stand firm: “Flee from sexual immorality” (1 Corinthians 6:18). This battle isn’t just resistance—it’s a pursuit of something brighter, something lasting.

The Lustful World

Let’s call it what it is: we live in a lustful world. It’s not just about sex—it’s about the constant barrage of craving, the way everything from ads to apps pushes me to want more, feel more, chase more. Lust isn’t always loud; sometimes it’s a whisper—a quick glance, a fleeting thought, a subtle nudge to let my guard down. But I’ve seen what happens when I don’t fight back. It’s not just a moment of weakness; it’s a shadow that creeps over my eternal sunshine, dulling the clarity I’ve worked so hard to hold onto. This world doesn’t rest, and neither can I if I want to keep my radiance intact.

This battle feels personal because it is. Temptation isn’t some abstract force—it’s tailored to my weaknesses, testing my resolve in ways that hit close to home. A lustful world doesn’t care about my goals or my faith; it just wants me to cave. But I’m not here to let it win. I’m here to guard what’s mine, to keep my soul’s light from being swallowed up.

Plato’s Shadows and My Sunshine

Philosophers like Plato have wrestled with this idea for centuries. In his allegory of the cave, he describes people chained in darkness, mistaking shadows on the wall for reality. The lustful world feels like that cave—full of flickering temptations that promise satisfaction but deliver emptiness. Lust is a shadow, a distortion of something real, and if I stare at it too long, I risk losing sight of the sun outside. My eternal sunshine isn’t just a feeling; it’s the truth of who I am when I’m free from those chains—the purity and radiance that come from living with intention.

Plato’s cave isn’t just a story—it’s a warning. The longer I linger on those shadows, the harder it is to turn toward the light. That’s why this battle matters. Every time I resist temptation, I’m stepping out of the cave, choosing the real over the illusion. Lust might dazzle for a moment, but it can’t hold a candle to the steady glow of my eternal sunshine.

Scripture as My Sword

Philosophy gives me perspective, but scripture gives me power. 1 Corinthians 6:18 cuts straight to the point: “Flee from sexual immorality.” It’s not a suggestion—it’s a command, urgent and clear. Fleeing isn’t weakness; it’s strategy. When lust comes knocking, I don’t stand there debating it—I run the other way, straight toward the purity I’m fighting for. This isn’t about shame or fear; it’s about knowing what’s at stake. My eternal sunshine is too precious to let a moment of temptation snuff it out.

Scripture doesn’t just tell me to run—it shows me why. Sexual immorality, in all its forms, isn’t just a physical act; it’s a spiritual weight that dims my radiance. 1 Corinthians 6:18 goes on to say that it’s a sin against my own body, a betrayal of the temple God gave me. That’s what keeps me in this battle—not guilt, but a fierce love for the light I carry inside.

The Fight for Purity

Purity isn’t a buzzword for me—it’s the heart of my eternal sunshine. It’s not about being perfect; it’s about being whole, unclouded by the haze of a lustful world. This battle against lust isn’t passive—I’m not just dodging temptation, I’m chasing radiance. Every “no” to lust is a “yes” to something better: peace, clarity, a soul that shines without apology. The lustful world wants me to settle for fleeting sparks, but I’m holding out for a fire that doesn’t fade.

Some days, the fight is harder than others. Temptation doesn’t always announce itself—it sneaks in, quiet and cunning. But I’ve learned its tricks. I surround myself with reminders of my purpose—friends who get it, music that lifts me, words from scripture that anchor me. When lust tugs, I don’t wrestle it alone; I lean on what keeps my sunshine alive.

Radiance Worth Protecting

In the end, this battle isn’t about what I’m against—it’s about what I’m for. My eternal sunshine is the radiance of a life lived on my terms, not the world’s. Lust might blind me for a moment, but it can’t touch what I’ve built through faith and resolve. Plato saw the sun as truth; scripture calls it holiness. For me, it’s both—a light that no lustful world can extinguish.

So I keep fighting, day by day. Not because it’s easy, but because it’s worth it. My eternal sunshine isn’t just a glow—it’s my victory, my proof that purity and radiance can thrive even in the thick of the storm.

The Second Tread from “Call Me A.C Green..(Poem):
“Purpose Over Pleasure: How I Stay Focused on Life’s Court Like A.C. Green”

The Second Tread from “Call Me A.C Green..(Poem):
“Purpose Over Pleasure: How I Stay Focused on Life’s Court Like A.C. Green”

“Call me A.C. Green—I’m focused on the court of life, avoiding distractions and pleasures that give birth to strife.” That’s my mantra, my way of navigating a world that constantly pulls me in a hundred directions. Like A.C. Green, the NBA champion known for his ironclad discipline both on and off the basketball court, I see life as a game that demands focus and grit. Pleasure isn’t my enemy—it’s the chaos it can unleash that I’m wary of. This approach draws from the wisdom of Stoicism, but it’s sharpened by scripture: “Run in such a way as to get the prize” (1 Corinthians 9:24). For me, the “court of life” is a race of faith, where distractions fade into the background, and purpose takes center stage.

A Game of Discipline

A.C. Green didn’t just win titles with the Lakers—he stayed true to himself, famously maintaining his virginity throughout his career despite the temptations of fame. That kind of discipline inspires me. Life’s court isn’t a literal hardwood floor; it’s the daily grind where every choice is a play, and every distraction is a defender trying to throw me off my game. I’m not here to chase every fleeting pleasure that comes my way—I’m here to keep my eyes on the ball, to prioritize purpose over the quick thrills that often lead to strife. Green showed me that discipline isn’t about denying yourself; it’s about choosing what matters most.

Pleasure, in itself, isn’t bad. A good meal, a laugh with friends, a moment of rest—these are gifts. But when pleasure turns into an obsession or a shortcut, it breeds chaos. A night of indulgence can spiral into regret, a mindless scroll through social media can steal hours from my goals. That’s the strife I’m avoiding—not the pleasure itself, but the mess it leaves behind when it’s unchecked. Discipline is my playbook, and like A.C. Green, I’m sticking to it.

Stoicism Meets Faith

This mindset aligns with Stoicism, the ancient philosophy that teaches us to focus on what we can control and let go of what we can’t. The Stoics, like Epictetus, would say that pleasures are external—they come and go, and chasing them can pull us off course. Instead, they’d urge me to anchor myself in purpose, to master my reactions to the world’s temptations. I find that wisdom compelling. When distractions pop up—a flashy ad, a tempting offer, a nudge to slack off—I remind myself that my power lies in choosing to stay focused, not in bending to every whim.

But Stoicism only gets me part of the way. Scripture takes it further, giving my discipline a deeper root. In 1 Corinthians 9:24, Paul writes, “Do you not know that in a race all the runners run, but only one gets the prize? Run in such a way as to get the prize.” That’s not just philosophy—it’s a call to action, a challenge to live with intention. For me, this race isn’t about outrunning others; it’s about running my own course with faith as my fuel. The prize isn’t a trophy or applause—it’s the peace of knowing I’m aligned with a purpose bigger than myself.

The Court of Life

I call it the “court of life” because it feels like a game sometimes—fast-paced, unpredictable, full of opponents trying to steal my focus. Distractions are everywhere: the lure of instant gratification, the pressure to fit in, the endless noise of a world that says pleasure is the point. But I’m not playing for the crowd. Like A.C. Green sinking free throws under pressure, I’m locking in on what keeps me steady. Purpose is my shot clock—it keeps me moving forward, not lingering on sidelines of fleeting highs.

Faith shapes this court. It’s not just about avoiding distractions; it’s about running toward something. 1 Corinthians 9:24 isn’t a passive suggestion—it’s an active command to run with everything I’ve got. That means saying no to pleasures that derail me, not out of fear, but out of focus. When I’m tempted to veer off, I think of Green—steady, unshaken, playing his game no matter the noise around him. Faith tells me the race is worth it, that the prize isn’t temporary but eternal.

Letting Distractions Fall Away

Distractions don’t just test my discipline—they reveal my priorities. Every time I sidestep a meaningless pleasure, I’m choosing purpose over chaos. It’s not always easy. Some days, the pull of instant gratification feels like a full-court press—relentless, in my face. But I’ve learned that giving in often leaves me with strife: wasted time, muddled goals, a nagging sense I’ve drifted from my path. So I let those distractions fall away, like defenders I’ve shaken off with a crossover move.

This isn’t about perfection. I stumble—I’m human. But discipline keeps me getting back up, refocusing on the prize. Stoicism reminds me I can’t control the distractions, only my response to them. Scripture reminds me why I’m running in the first place. Together, they keep me on the court, playing my game, not someone else’s.

Purpose Takes the Lead

In the end, it’s purpose that drives me, not the absence of pleasure. A.C. Green didn’t just avoid temptation—he pursued excellence, on and off the court. I’m doing the same. Life’s court is full of noise, but I’m not here to chase every bounce of the ball. I’m here to run my race, to live with focus and faith. Pleasure might call my name, but purpose has my heart. And like Green, I’ll keep playing—steady, disciplined, and all in for the prize.