Ramblesome.

The End is near.

Within 3 halves of a week, I will be done and quite finished with all undertakings at Virginia Western Community College, save the graduatory honor they will wish to lavish on my May 13th. Speaking about the “eenths” of May, I am quite looking forward to Episode III, having spoiled my judgmental anticipation by viewing several trailers. Hmm, plot? Yeah, some of it has been revealed, but still the intricate complications will be made known. I simply hope Mr. Lucas doesn’t screw up on this one like he has for the last two.

So my endeavors of late have helped to propel me into a strange world of antimatter, relativity, and the dimension of time. I am studying these subjects for a secretive project that I undertake to aid Aaron Johnson in his conquering of the world. Speaking about conquering, do you believe you have the right to arm (and protect) yourself? What purposes do you think guns serve? Just as blunt mindless weaponry? Think again, my friend.

Firearms are tools, very much like knives. They are excellent hunting tools. They are excellent defense tools. And most importantly, they are excellent political tools. But what do I mean by these conversing of political tools? Are not you a tool (snicker)? But even so, let’s say that some day in the near future the U.S. Government decides to strip away the constitutional rights of Americans and decide for itself what is right and wrong (as opposed to honoring its constituents). This day may be closer than you think. Look at the stripped moral rights of Americans, especially religious activity in schools. Look at the attempts to disarm America in order to give the government more unaccountable power. Look at the geometric growth of the government, expanding to control every facet of life. Look at my lady who has just walked in and bade me leave. GOOD MORNING!

Tell me your thoughts.

When geniuses converse

Grace Fellowship.

Last night.

After worship practice.

In the quickening tension between the convictions of Newog, Hacim, and Sirhcio, the three reasonable men of renown came to a second of thoughtful silence while arguing predestination. Newog’s hand caressed his brow, attempting to formulate thoughts inside his head. Hacim stood over the pulpit, reading the all-too familiar verses to try and explain why he was a Calvinist. Sirhcio sat in a seat behind the pulpit, mostly listening to this conversation, inserting a bit of wisdom when he deemed necessary.

“The way I see it,” Newog put in, “it seems as if you’re trying to say we don’t have any will in the matter.”

Hacim thought for a second, and calmly answered, “Well, we do have a will. But God can change a person’s heart without necessarily going against their will.”

Sirhcio suddenly spoke up, a sign that he had something important to say: “I believe that every decision we make is based upon the past, and we’re free to choose that which we desire to do. So I believe that if God gives us the desire to choose him, then we have the freedom to choose what are desire is: God.”

Feeling more confident, Hacim again spoke, “Yes. God gives us the ability to choose him. Before God draws us, we don’t have any ability to choose him. But once God takes our heart, changes is and makes it new, we then have the ability to choose him, and once our heart sees the true beauty of Christ, we cannot help but follow our heart’s desire.”

The Newog thought a little more, and put in, “Well, maybe that is so. But the way I see it, is that people all over the world have a God-shaped vacuum, and the Scripture says that there is natural revelation all around. It seems that everyone has the ability to become saved.”

But even then as Newog made his argument, Gristhkeg entered and bid him make leave in light of the waning hour. So Newog said farewell to his companions, but not with a disturbed spirit, for he felt that he, Hacim and Sirhcio had sharpened each other, as iron sharpens iron.

workout

In the aura of ever bulking muscles, slimming waist lines, and growing smiles, the formerly weighty ‘Gibroni struts up the concrete pathway leading to the oasis of chlorinated dihydrogen monoxide and suntan-lotion-applied bodies. A spectacle of paradise is intruded from every angle by mass amounts of uncovered skin. Although the classification of ‘nude’ is avoided, one could argue that a tightrope is being walked respective to this circumstance. But the ex flabby pseudostud, having gained a newly known confidence, strides up the pool side and strips off his shirt, exposing a finely etched torso. Ripping out the suntan lotion, he begins to apply himself, sensing the attracted glare from female spectacles.

Soon there is a mob of voluptuous sirens singing his praise, adoring every inch of his muscleous bod, saying, chanting their unadulterated lust for him. Scantily-clad ladies cling to him from every angle, pleading for him to come and enter into the realm of looove. Soon so many females are surrounding the man that he starts to suffocate from the fumes of suntan lotion and perfume. He reaches out, gasps for air, and the images of insanely hot ladies soon turns into many monsters with multiple heads reaching out with claw and horn to tear his soul from his body. Red fiery eyes pierce his gaze, looking up in a fit of braindaze, head swimming, indeed drowning, he tries to swim and reach air on the surface of the water, but fails. Left dying, light dimming before his eyes, his mind goes to recall the events of his life. His failures, his ambitions, his many years stuck in the sluggish solitude of overeating and laziness, when of late a fit of desperation tore him into a frightful frenzy to shed pounds and gain muscle, he thought his life a success now, gaining the respect of the world, accomplishing what few people ever could. Indeed a Jerry of his time, a victor of the flesh, he would now see his end in the very moment he thought would bring the most happiness: choked to death at the hands of lust and ambition.

Spont...

Like some madman I sit and type on in a cramped cubicle, pounding away on some unknown project doomed to ponder the complexities of the innumerable concept infinite. My brow soaked with sweat, my eyes quivering, my back hunched over, glasses tipped over the edge of my nose, I can only sit and stare, and think, delving deeper into the pits of abstraction, getting infinitely farther away from my goal.

Down into the chambers of incessant violence my mind strays, witnessing the likes of [message truncated** edit done] and ever out of my dreams I hear their voices still.

Up into that city in the clouds I fly, pillowed in the company of grace. Figures of pure light dine with me, welcoming my soul to freedom. Indeed, William Wallace himself makes an appearance, but now in glorified form. Heaven? No. Just a random city in the clouds where the spirit realm is readily seen with waking eyes. And the iron claw of wakefulness now attacks my senses.