Looking into the Ġgantija structures in Malta and what exactly it could mean for dating civilizations.

The difference between Africa and America from an African man's eyes. chilling details of the vast minerals being stolen by the west.

Week 4 of the Good Lord, Deliver Us: The Great Litany as Survival Kit for the Via Media in Exile series, stretches us beyond our certainties. Intercession becomes exile’s discipline: praying for everyone, especially those we resist. Scripture reveals how God sees the heart, prepares a table in the presence of enemies, and opens the eyes of those the center overlooks. The Litany’s suffrages train us in humility, widening our prayer until it includes the whole world—those who wound us, those we blame, and those we fail to see. In praying for our enemies, our own hearts are changed, and we learn again to live as children of light.

Learning what a mustard seed was. In three different ways. How it was living here in the country in the garden and learning what faith is.

Year 2100 The Blood Scourge, a terrifying disease, it ravaged the world all over no cure was ever found. It attacked everyone without any discrimination. Very little survived if the disease was contracted. Symptoms included vomiting blood and headaches. It was an infection and it spread around the globe, people falling ill left and right. The disease causes many to vomit blood, their internal organs becoming a bloodied soup. When the infectious disease entered the body it took all but a month to finish its course. It would at first affect the mouth causing bloody sores to burst when something was eaten or drank. The sores would rupture making the blood travel down into the esophagus and stomach making the inner lining of each dissolving at a rapid rate. The dissolving tissue would then spread into the lungs and intestines. Then finally working a deadly path towards the heart and the brain. Some that survived it had mutations, an unworldly power. They were called Mutants.

Lost. Not broken. Just walking through fog. No maps. No signs. Only steps. Chaos surrounds me. Mistakes pile up. Life refuses neat lines. And still… I show up. I fix, I clean, I build. I walk. I move. I persist. Being lost isn’t failure. It’s proof I care. Proof I’m awake. Proof I’m alive. Every step counts. Every effort matters. Every day I rise, I create my own path. The road is unclear. The next step is scary. But my steps are mine. And mine are enough. I don’t need certainty. I only need courage. And courage is built in the walking.

The judgement from the outside why you're struggling on the inside. Being misunderstood because you don't deal with people & things they way you use to.

Streams of conscious. Writing from the perspective of the uninterested. No grand ideas or worlds. Plain view.

You ever think thing that's wrong with the world, is everyone is trying so hard to be happy or feel "fulfilled" (whatever the hell that means). I swear, everyone acts like being miserable is a fate worse than death. I genuinely enjoy being miserable and life sucking. Happiness holds hardly an appeal. You know what? I am perfectly fine. I never stay at a job or location unless I feel like it or locked up. I kinda just do whatever it is I feel like doing. I make plans just to have crap to fall through, slang and I'm secretly glad when crap blows up in my face; cuz I don't think I'm type of guy to commit. Losing is a a lot more relaxing than winning if you just accept it rather chase the next high of gaining another win.

"I am distinctly aware that my life as it was, is over. Yet my life as it is, is just the same. Insistently, almost, I sabotage every piece of happiness like a poison killing off any weak enough to succumb. You loved me. Forever."

Harriet Monsell’s life offers a countercultural freedom: the courage to love without needing results. A widowed woman who rebuilt her life at Clewer, she created sanctuary for those Victorian society discarded—not through programs or metrics, but through holy indifference, the spiritual practice of releasing outcomes to God. Her community loved without tiring, stayed without demanding transformation, and trusted God with what they could not fix. In an age obsessed with saving, measuring, and proving effectiveness, Monsell reminds us that faithfulness—not success—is the work. Love now; let God hold the rest.

Imagine asking a simple question: What is truth? At first, the answer seems obvious. Truth reflects reality. Facts are facts. The world is the world. But then the questions begin. Are there truths that exist no matter what humans believe? Are there truths shaped by culture, society, and geography? And if truth reflects reality, how much of that reality depends on our five senses—what we see, hear, smell, taste, and touch? Because if our senses shape our understanding of the world, then our perception might be shaping what we call truth. Which leads to an uncomfortable possibility: What if some of the truths we believe in are not universal at all… but simply the way we experience the world?

This poem is about my friends and siblings. Despite my depression and situation, I can always count on them to make my day as amazing as possible. Yet, I am still not doing well; fighting my demons so I don't lose them..

11:05 a.m. gov. class 10 minute poem "I dont wanna leave my friends.." This poem is inspired by my sister, ri rii. I remember on an old server, I was instantaneously friending everyone. During one summer day, she joined the server, and I was like "ur my bestie now!" Now, almost a year later, she's my forever older sister. She's cared for me since day one, and I hope to be her forever little brother.

11:28 a.m., Gov. Class "Idk random thoughts and im just so grateful for my friends i really dont want to leave my friends.."

This poem..is very personal. During the time of this writing, I was going to end it. I wrote this as a final goodbye to my angels. Looking back, I realized how much this might of hurt them. However, who am I to say that when I'm in the same trapped, helpless bubble..?

15:12. This poem is inspired by Julia Alexa's song, "PRETTY WHEN I CRY." The song means a lot to me, and so does my poem.

10:56, government class. If you want to know what is in my mind, you might as well be in Tartarus. Beneath of my happiness, my joy, there is a layer of hurt and sadness.

my teenage dream is a bit different from others. Instead of going to the movies with friends, I watch movies through a screen with them. Instead of meeting up with friends, I meet them in voice calls. Yet, I wouldn't trade any of my teenage-hood for anything else. x

unfinished poem. "it hurts to write this. me no wanna go..me..hurt you..." but what hurts the most, is that i'm back in the same, if not, worse situation.