PrivateCanopy—Sheltering Deep Thoughts

PrivateCanopy—Sheltering Deep Thoughts I’m a curious wanderer of ideas, drawn to deep questions, dark coffee, and great thinkers. If that sounds dramatic, it’s only because it is.

Faith plays a central role in how I see the world, not as a shiny motivational poster, bt as a quiet defiance against dspair, a cross-shaped resstance to the absrd. Hey there — welcome to my quiet corner of the internet, PrivateCanopy. This blog is where I think out loud — often philosophically, sometimes sarcastically, and always sincerely. Faith plays a central role in how I see the world — not

as a shiny motivational poster, but as a quiet defiance against despair, a cross-shaped resistance to the absurd. So whether you’re here by accident, divine intervention, or sheer existential inertia — I’m glad you wandered in. Pull up a thought and stay a while. 😌

22/07/2025

Her Head Blew Clean Off

An ordinary Tuesday, a glowing rectangle, and something unexplainable.

—From the balcony of wonder

She was sitting across from my balcony,

perched on the top floor of that old yellow apartment that probably leaks when it rains.

Just a regular Tuesday.

She had that small glowing rectangle in her hand—phone, obviously.

Laughing, scrolling, occasionally making that little face people make when something’s just mildly amusing but not worth a real laugh.

You know the one.

Then—boom.

Her head blew clean off.

No, not literally.

There was no blood, no screaming, no Netflix documentary to follow.

But I swear to you—one second she was chill and composed, and the next, she looked like she had just seen something eternal.

Like her soul had walked barefoot into a cathedral.

She kept staring at her screen.

Completely still.

Mouth slightly open.

Like a question mark that forgot what it was asking.

I leaned forward, curious.

What kind of TikTok does that to a person?

She never looked up, but I could almost hear her thinking, like radio static tuned to wonder.

Later—thanks to social sleuthing (and a shameless amount of zooming)—I found the verse she read:

“…that Christ may dwell in your hearts through faith, as you are being rooted and grounded in love.

I pray that you may have the power to comprehend, with all the saints,

what is the breadth and length and height and depth,

and to know the love of Christ that surpasses knowledge,

so that you may be filled with all the fullness of God.”

— Ephesians 3:17–19

That’s what did it.

That’s what blew her up.

Some ancient prayer, sitting there like a time-bomb in her feed.

She believed in love—sure.

“Said a mother’s love was the highest form. (Pam would’ve nodded—we all know the weight of that.)”

But this wasn’t just sentiment.

This was tectonic.

“Filled with the fullness of God”?

Who even writes like that?

Whatever happened up there—on that balcony, on that Tuesday—it rewired something.

She’s still the same. Mostly.

But now, when she looks at the sky,

she pauses a little longer.

Like someone who saw infinity blink.

20/06/2025

“Just as flattering friends corrupt, so quarrelsome enemies often bring us correction.”
— St. Augustine, Confessions, Book IX

🪶 Background Context:
Before Monica became the woman of prayer and virtue we revere, she was a young girl in her father’s house, helping herself to small sips of wine—just a little at a time, unnoticed, harmless… or so she thought.

One day, a maidservant saw through the growing habit and lashed out at her, calling her a “wine-drinker” in anger. It stung—but it pierced her pride and opened her eyes. Monica was so ashamed that she gave up the habit instantly.

Augustine shares this story not to embarrass her, but to show the paradox of grace:
Sometimes, it’s not our gentle friends but our harshest critics who awaken us to truth.
Not all who hurt us intend to help—but God can use anyone to shape us.

And Monica, rather than making excuses, allowed correction to become transformation.
That’s what makes her so admirable—not that she never stumbled, but that she always got up with humility.

16/06/2025

Journal Reflection –Confessions: Book VII: When the Light Begins to Tremble Through

I have finished reading Book VII. Augustine is standing at a threshold—his mind awakened, but his heart still wrestling. He is shedding the false gods of his past—Manicheism, astrology, the idea that evil is a thing created by God. And yet, he is not yet fully ready to bow. Not yet.

I understand this space. I, too, feel like I’m waiting for something to break open—longing for clarity while standing in the fog. My heart is heavy these days. A prayer I hoped would be answered… wasn’t. Not in the way I wanted. It’s not romantic grief, but the kind that presses on the chest, quietly, with disappointment and confusion. A sacred ache.

Augustine spoke of God and evil, quoting Scripture, weighing ideas with the minds of Plato and Plotinus. But it wasn’t enough to know truth—he wanted to meet Truth.
And I think, maybe, I’m like that too.

"You have made us for Yourself, O Lord, and our heart is restless until it rests in You."

That line rings truer than ever—not as a quote, but as my soul’s quiet cry.
I, too, have chased understanding. I, too, have run from my own pain.
And even now, I find myself saying:

“Turn Your gaze away from me, Lord… for I feel unworthy.”
But also:
“Don’t go too far… I won’t survive without You.”

Augustine begins to grasp something in this chapter—not yet full surrender, but a trembling light breaking through the cracks. He sees Christ not just as a teacher of truth, but as the Truth made flesh, the One who alone can lift the burden between divinity and humanity.

I don’t have answers right now.
But I have tears. And I have hope.
And like Augustine, maybe that is enough for now.

Because apart from You, Lord, I will never flourish.
And maybe… just maybe… someone is still praying for me.

16/06/2025

Lessons from the Greatest Ass-Kicking of My Life (So Far)
(Or: Why I Now Cough When It’s Windy)

Alright, lean in. Today I’m dusting off a file buried deep in my brain’s "Hippocampus" folder (password: trauma). It’s time to confess the story of how I got folded like a lawn chair by a human tornado named Bucky. Buckle up.

Scene: School social work day. Translation: We’re mopping floors to avoid algebra. Glorious.
The Crime: Just as we finished making the floor shine like a Bollywood star’s teeth, Bucky—a guy whose hobby was chaos—strolls in. He kicks over bins, stomps mud everywhere, and transforms our classroom into what looked like a troll’s basement.
The Teacher: Bursts in, gripping his cane like he’s about to squeeze coconut water out of it. "WHO. DID. THIS?"
The Silence: Deafening. Even the class gecko held its breath.

Now, I was Class Captain™ (adjusts imaginary badge), but let’s be real: I was also built like a twig with glasses. Bucky? He looked like he bench-pressed motorcycles. So when Teacher threatened to "beat the snot out of everyone," my survival instinct kicked in. I pointed at Bucky like my finger was a courtroom laser. "SIR! HE DID IT!"

Bucky shot me a look that said, "You’re about to become a cautionary tale." And oh, he delivered.

The Ambush:
Walking home later (thinking about video games, blissfully unaware), I hear my name screamed like a battle cry. I turn. Bucky charges at me like a rhino in school shoes. He shoves me so hard, I hit the ground like a house of cards in a hurricane.

As I scramble for my textbooks (priorities!), Bucky kicks them like they owe him money. That’s when tiny, furious me stood up. I dropped into a "Bruce Lee stance" (knees bent at a cool 168°—don’t fact-check me).

The "Fight":
Bucky’s neck vein started pulsing like a cartoon thermometer. He threw his bag down: "You DARE?!"
Me, channeling WWE energy: "COME GET SOME!" (Fine, I yelled "Fight me!" but let me live.)

For 1.7 glorious seconds, we were Mortal Kombat characters. Then—POW! I dodged his first punch like Neo! …Then his left hook found my kidney like a Jedi lightsaber. Pro tip: Kidney punches make you spit blood instantly. (Now I cough when it’s breezy. Thanks, Bucky!)

My Villain Arc:
I spat blood in his face (big mistake). Bucky wiped it off, sighed like a disappointed dad, and punched my temple so hard I saw Archie comics characters floating around. More blows rained down like a hailstorm of regret. I threw weak jabs—tickling the Hulk, basically—while slowly morphing into a human pretzel.

The "aftermath"? Let’s just say I earned admiration (read: pity) from the whole school. And Bucky? He became a legend. Sigh.

Lessons Learned (The Funny-ish Way):
Fake Confidence ‘Til You Make (or Break) It.
Bullies sniff fear like truffle pigs. Stand tall, yell "FIGHT ME!" in a squeaky voice—whatever. Confusion is armor.

Fight Dirty (Your Pencil Case is a Weapon).
Throw sand! Bite ankles! Your geometry compass? It’s a shank now. Make Bucky regret his life choices.

Embrace the Beatdown.
They can’t kill you (probably). So take the hits, cough dramatically, and whisper "…worth it" as they walk away. Persistence is cringe—but iconic.

Final Wisdom™: If life gives you a Bucky… walk the other way. Or carry pepper spray. Your call.

06/06/2025

The Holy Paradox: When Joy and Sorrow Walk Together

(Inspired by 1 Peter 1:6 and the lives of the saints)

"Christianity makes you a happier person and a sadder person at the same time."

These words might sound contradictory to the world. But to the soul that follows Christ, they hold a tender kind of truth. Christianity doesn’t numb your feelings; it deepens them. It doesn’t erase sorrow; it gives it meaning. It doesn’t eliminate the ache; it sanctifies it.

This is the paradox we live with: the holy ache.

Sorrowful, Yet Always Rejoicing

"In this you rejoice, even if now for a little while you have had to suffer various trials."— 1 Peter 1:6 (NRSV)

Peter's audience was suffering. Many of them faced external pressures — opposition, marginalization, or persecution. But we can imagine that others faced a quieter kind of struggle: the heavy silence of God, the invisible burdens of fear, doubt, and guilt. The "various trials" he mentions may have included both the seen and the secret. Some trials are inner wars.

And yet Peter says: In this you rejoice.

In what? In the inheritance that cannot perish. In a living hope that outlives our fading breath. In a Savior who walked ahead of us, carrying the weight of every sorrow to the Cross.

This joy doesn’t deny pain. It dances through it.

The Saints Felt It Too

The saints never pretended to be always cheerful. They bled joy through wounds.

St. Teresa of Ávila, famous for her laughter and love of God, once said:

"If this is how You treat Your friends, no wonder You have so few!"

Legend says she cried this out after falling from her cart into a muddy stream. The “You” was God — and her words were not spoken in rebellion, but in raw, intimate honesty. She had a friendship with God that allowed both lament and love to exist side by side. Her health was poor. Her prayers often seemed unanswered. And yet she continued with a kind of stubborn, radiant trust.

For anyone who has few friends and feels the silence of heaven more than its songs — this moment speaks. It tells us that saints, too, felt lonely, forgotten, and bruised by life.

C.S. Lewis, mourning the death of his beloved wife, wrote in A Grief Observed:

*"The pain I feel now is the happiness I had before. That’s the deal."

Faith didn’t shield them from suffering. It gave their suffering a place in God's larger story.

Inner Turmoil: The Invisible Trials

Sometimes the worst trials are not wars or famines, but the aching silence in our own hearts.

What do you do when you still believe in Jesus, but you fear you're just looking for comfort?
What if you need affirmation so badly that you doubt the purity of your faith?
What if your prayers feel mechanical, your worship half-hearted?

These are not signs of unbelief. They are symptoms of a soul that wants to believe fully but is tired, cracked, human.

This too, Peter includes in "various trials."

Even this inner conflict is a fire that refines.

"So that the genuineness of your faith—being more precious than gold... may be found to result in praise and glory and honor when Jesus Christ is revealed."— 1 Peter 1:7

God is not threatened by your doubts. He purifies them.

The "Even If" and the "Little While"

Peter anchors suffering in two small but mighty phrases: "even if" and "for a little while."

Even if dreams break.

Even if the future is cloudy.

Even if you feel lost in your own story.

It is only for a little while. It feels long now, but eternity is vast. And in the quiet corners of this life, God is already shaping something beautiful.

You are not a broken believer. You are a believer being burnished. Not a ruin, but a refinement.

Embracing the Holy Ache

So yes—Christianity may make you sadder. You will weep for a world torn from its Maker. You will feel more deeply, ache more honestly.

But it also makes you immeasurably happier.

Because your hope is not tied to your feelings, your performance, or even your own strength. It is anchored in Someone who does not change. In Someone who wept with us, died for us, and rose to lead us Home.

"He will wipe every tear from their eyes."— Revelation 21:4

Until then, we walk this paradox. And in that tension, we find the sacred joy of the saints:

Sorrowful, yet always rejoicing. Sad, but not alone. Hurting, but held.

This is the holy paradox.

And it is beautiful.

30/05/2025

“Spend, Suffer, or Surrender?” — A Conversation Between Die with Zero, Schopenhauer, and Ecclesiastes

I just finished reading Die with Zero. As I sipped my coffee, lost in thought, I found myself wondering—what would Schopenhauer or Ecclesiastes have to say about it? ☕📖

In a world obsessed with saving, hustling, and deferring joy, Bill Perkins’ Die with Zero enters like a rebel prophet. His message? Don’t just accumulate—live. Experience your life while you’re still young enough to savor it. Your time is your most precious asset, not your bank balance.

Perkins invites us to optimize for meaning, not just wealth. He introduces “time-bucketing”—mapping out the most meaningful experiences at the right stages of life. He warns against saving so much for the future that you miss the now. His philosophy feels like a spiritual sequel to “You Only Live Once”—but with spreadsheets.

But just as the reader begins to nod, coffee in hand, comes the heavy thud of Arthur Schopenhauer, dragging his chair to the table.

Schopenhauer’s Rebuttal: “To Live Fully is to Suffer More”
To Schopenhauer, Perkins’ manifesto would be nothing more than fuel to the Will—that insatiable drive at the core of all human existence.

“You chase memories and pleasure, but you are merely feeding the beast that keeps you in bondage,” Schopenhauer might argue.
“What you call experiences, I call distractions. Fleeting silences of a hunger that will never be satisfied.”

For Schopenhauer, the pursuit of rich experiences is a trap. It’s not about dying with zero—but rather dying with detachment. Every fulfilled desire births a new craving. The Will always returns. So long as you desire, you suffer.

He proposes instead a life of renunciation: not reckless denial, but calm disinterest—freedom from the Will, not freedom to spend.

Where Perkins sees freedom in intentional spending, Schopenhauer sees enslavement to delusion.

Enter Ecclesiastes: A Timeless Rejoinder
And then, rising like an ancient wind across time, comes the voice of Ecclesiastes—the Teacher, the Preacher, the weary king.

He has seen it all: palaces, vineyards, concubines, wisdom, folly, toil, and laughter.

His response is not cynical like Schopenhauer’s, but not as bright-eyed as Perkins’. It is drenched in melancholy and reverence.

“I have seen everything under the sun, and behold, all is vanity and a chasing after wind.”
“There is nothing better for a person than to eat and drink and find enjoyment in their toil.”

To Ecclesiastes, both Perkins and Schopenhauer are partially right—and both dangerously close to missing the full picture.

Yes, life is fleeting. Yes, wealth hoarded is meaningless. Yes, experiences matter.
But they do not ultimately satisfy.

“Enjoy your life,” he says, “but do so with the fear of God. For to live wisely is not to avoid joy, but to anchor it in humility.”

Ecclesiastes is not anti-pleasure, nor anti-wealth. He is anti-illusion.
He tells us: Live. Enjoy. Remember you will die. And fear God.

Conclusion: Between the Wallet and the Soul
Die With Zero says: Life is for living. Spend it before it's too late.

Schopenhauer says: Desire is the prison. Withdraw before it eats you alive.

Ecclesiastes says: Yes, enjoy—but remember: all is v***r. Anchor joy in wisdom.

We are caught between the urge to spend, the call to renounce, and the reminder to revere.

Maybe the wisest life is one where we sip joy carefully, see through illusion, and walk humbly in our days under the sun.

27/05/2025

Why I’m a Christian Existentialist (and Maybe You Are Too)

"Anxiety is the dizziness of freedom." — Kierkegaard

There are moments late at night when the silence becomes too loud. You ask yourself questions you can’t Google. Questions like: Why am I here? What if I waste my life? Is God even listening? It is in those moments that I realized: I am an existentialist. And strangely, I am also a Christian.

That may sound like a contradiction, but it isn’t.

What Even Is Christian Existentialism?

Christian existentialism isn’t about doubting God’s existence. It’s about taking your relationship with God so seriously that you can no longer hide behind religious habit or cultural Christianity. It begins with the self—raw, anxious, free—and leads to a God who is deeply personal.

Søren Kierkegaard, the Danish philosopher and father of existentialism, believed the individual must stand alone before God. No traditions. No hand-me-down beliefs. Just you, your choices, and the living God.

Faith Is Not Comfort Food

Kierkegaard didn’t offer the cozy, feel-good Christianity that promises instant peace. He described faith as a leap into the absurd. God becoming man? Eternal truth in a crucified carpenter? That’s not logical. It’s scandalous. But that’s exactly the point.

"Without risk, there is no faith."

Faith is not a shortcut around despair—it’s the door through it.

Despair Is Part of the Journey

To Kierkegaard, despair isn’t some mental health glitch; it’s a spiritual condition. It arises when the self is misaligned—when we ignore our eternal aspect, or drown it in social approval, career paths, or religious performance.

But despair also signals that we know there's something more. We feel estranged from our true self because we intuitively sense we were made for more than this machinery of success and survival.

"The greatest hazard of all: losing oneself... can occur very quietly in the world, as if it were nothing at all."

Freedom Hurts

Modern life tells us: be free, choose anything, redefine everything. But true freedom terrifies us. Because with it comes responsibility. No one can believe for you. No one can live your purpose. You can't outsource your soul.

So, we numb it with distractions, ideologies, and surface-level spirituality. But Kierkegaard calls our bluff. He tells us that the real adventure of faith begins the moment we stop pretending.

The Leap of Faith

Being a Christian existentialist means you don’t have all the answers—but you choose to believe anyway. You wrestle with God like Jacob did. You walk through the desert like Moses. You cry out like Christ: "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? And still, in the silence, you dare to whisper: "Into your hands, I commit my spirit."

That’s not weakness. That’s the strongest kind of faith there is.

Maybe You Are One Too

If you’ve ever sat in church and felt both comforted and deeply alienated...
If you've prayed and felt like the heavens were closed but kept praying anyway...
If you've questioned everything but still held on to something...

Then maybe you're a Christian existentialist too.

And that’s not a crisis. That’s your soul waking up.

---

Written with trembling fingers and a stubborn heart. In faith, in freedom, in fire.

18/05/2025

"Of Minds Awakened and Hearts Set Aflame"
Once upon a time—not in a fairy tale, but in the quiet, searching minds of a postmodern world—the rumor of God had begun to sound like an echo fading into skepticism. The pews had grown silent in some corners, while screens flickered with confident voices dismissing the faith as a relic of emotional neediness or intellectual laziness. “Only the weak believe,” they said.

And yet, somewhere between a YouTube rabbit hole and a dusty bookshelf, something began to stir.

It started not with thunder, but with questions. Deep ones. “What is truth?” “Is meaning real?” “Is God a myth or a mystery too coherent to be accidental?” And in that sacred in-between where doubt flirts with wonder, the voices began to rise—not the old ones of televangelist theatrics or cold institutionalism, but new apologists, armed not just with theology but with wit, science, storytelling, and stunning analogies.

Wes Huff, John Lennox, William Lane Craig, Inspiring Philosophy, and others—some with academic robes, some with camera setups in their garages—have stepped forward. Not shouting, but reasoning. Not coercing, but inviting.

And I—just a quiet blogger in the digital shadows—am rejoicing.

Because for too long, Christianity was dismissed as something for the overly emotional or the under-read. But now? Now we see that the God of the Bible never asked for blind devotion. He asked for whole-hearted and whole-minded love:

“You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your soul, and with all your mind.” (Matthew 22:37)

This is a faith where rigor and wonder shake hands. Where Dostoyevsky’s psychological depth and Lewis’ moral clarity stand beside Moses and Paul. Where science and Scripture don’t war, but dialogue—because truth doesn’t fear a microscope or a Socratic method.

I rejoice especially in how these new defenders of the faith translate towering arguments into street-level insight. Not everyone has time to read Aquinas or Plantinga, but now they don’t have to. These modern-day scribes are reading it for them, breaking the bread of deep ideas into bite-sized pieces and serving it on reels, podcasts, and patient interviews. And yet—they do it without watering it down.

They’re making theology breathable again.

And yes, the mind must be engaged. But it isn’t just mental gymnastics that bring us home. It is the heart that beats fast when truth hits like light through a stained-glass window. It is the tears when grace is understood not just as doctrine, but as rescue.

So, I watch. I listen. I read, yes—but I also thank God that I no longer have to walk this intellectual and spiritual path alone.

The world mocked. “Where is your God now?”
But now the question comes from a different place: “Wait... what if it’s all true?”

Faith is not wishful thinking. It is the most reasonable love one can offer to the God who first reasoned with us.

And here we are again—minds awakened, hearts set aflame, and the Word of God being proclaimed in podcasts and pixels, in reason and reverence, just as it always was meant to be.

14/05/2025

🥄 The Pseudo-Intellectual: A Tragicomedy in Three Acts 😌
Act I – The Awakening
In the sacred silence of his room, lit only by the blue light of a ring lamp, he receives his divine calling.

“I have read two blog posts on Nietzsche and one meme about Freud. I must now teach the world.”

He starts a podcast. The intro music is royalty-free jazz.
His voice — deep, like someone trying to sound deep.
His opinions? Mostly paraphrased Jordan Peterson, with a dash of Wikipedia.

“What people don’t realize is that Socrates was, like, the first life coach.”

The audience? Loyal. Confused. Easily impressed.

Act II – The Rise
He becomes a prophet of vibes.

The algorithm smiles upon him.
A clip goes viral. His hot take on “Plato predicting AI” gets 100k likes.

“You see, the cave allegory? That was basically a metaphor for Instagram. Plato knew, bro.”

He starts using words like “ontology,” “dialectic,” and “neuroplasticity” — not knowing what they mean, but trusting no one will ask.

He’s invited to panels. Debates. TEDx talks.
He sells a course titled Think Like Aristotle, Feel Like Drake.

Meanwhile, actual thinkers weep softly in their libraries.

Act III – The Fall (But Not Really)
One day, he is asked a real question by a real expert:

“Can you explain what you mean by ‘epistemic courage’?”

He blinks. Stalls. Quotes Jung. Then says something about mushrooms.

The internet laughs. Briefly.
But within days, he rebrands as a “spiritual minimalist philosopher-poet” and gains 20k more followers.

You see, in the land of blurred truths and digital fog, exposure isn’t death — it’s marketing.

And thus, the pseudo-intellectual does not die.
He simply… pivots.

Epilogue: The Audience
And we? We still scroll.
Half-laughing. Half-learning.
Knowing deep down that wisdom rarely shouts —
but wishing it had better SEO.
*Search Engine Optimization
😌🔥

08/05/2025

Held by the One Who Commands the Stars
A worship reflection inspired by Job 38🔥💝

O Lord,
You speak from the whirlwind,
and the mountains tremble.

You summon the morning with a whisper,
and it comes running in golden obedience.

You walk among the constellations—
Pleiades and Orion answer to You,
yet You stoop low
to hear my prayer.

You bind the chains of the stars.
You number the lightning bolts.
You feed the lions in their dens
and watch over the wild donkeys where no eye sees.
And still—You know me.

I cannot fathom You.
You are too mighty, too ancient, too wise.
Yet I am not afraid.

Because the hand that holds the heavens
has taken hold of me.

So today, I do not ask for answers.
I simply kneel.
In wonder.
In trembling joy.
In peace.

And I whisper:

“Surely, I spoke of things too wonderful for me to know.”
— Job 42:3

05/05/2025

The Silence of the Lambs is unsettlingly brilliant, and Hannibal Lecter is one of fiction’s most chilling intellectuals. Eyes like razors dipped in charm. A predator who doesn’t prowl—but waits. A gentleman of fine taste, who finds your soul much more flavorful than your flesh.

The kind of man who’ll compliment your cologne while dissecting your childhood trauma—and maybe your liver.

He doesn’t need a knife to cut deep. He cuts through the room with cold civility and calmly asks something like:

“Tell me, Agent Starling—do you feel qualified to judge what is good and what is evil?”
It’s not just villainous charm—it’s a philosophical provocation cloaked in horror.

That question he raises touches a nerve that goes deep into moral philosophy:
If we don’t have an objective standard, who does define right and wrong?

Society? Well, societies have called slavery right, remember.

The individual? That’s chaos. Every person becomes their own god.

The State? That’s Orwell’s playground.

Evolution? That just tells us what is—not what ought to be.

Without a fixed reference point—something transcendent—morality becomes negotiable. And Lecter, being the monster that he is, exploits that gap. That’s why he’s terrifying: not because he lacks a moral code—but because he has his own, completely detached from empathy, conscience, or shared truth.

In Christian thought, this is precisely why God must be the grounding of goodness. Because without the eternal Logos, “right” becomes a matter of preference—like fashion trends. And as Dostoyevsky put it:

“If there is no God, everything is permitted.”

04/05/2025

The Burden of Witnessing: On Justice, Exhaustion, and Not Going Numb.

There’s a kind of exhaustion that no sleep can cure—the tiredness of the soul when it’s been watching injustice unfold, again and again, while everyone else seems to either cheer, shrug, or scroll past it. If you’ve ever felt this—you’re not alone.

We live in a world where the poor pay the highest indirect taxes on the most basic things, while the rich glide through the system on pillows made of loopholes. The bureaucracy is dense for the common man and butter-smooth for those with connections. And when you call it out? You’re labeled a troublemaker. Or worse, a traitor—by the very people who are being crushed by the same system.

Irony is dead. Or maybe it’s just hiding in plain sight.

Sometimes, I wish I were more naive—like the pigs in Animal Farm before they realized the rules had changed. Again. Ignorance is bliss, they say. And maybe that’s true. Because when you see the injustice and can’t unsee it, there’s a deep spiritual ache that starts to settle in your bones. A mourning. A silent scream.

"We are all equal," the sign said.
But some were always more equal than others.

It’s not just Orwellian. It’s daily life now.

There’s no satire anymore—just headlines. No need for metaphor when the real thing is worse.

And yet, there’s a hope I cling to—not rooted in institutions or elections, but in the promised justice of Christ. The Kingdom He spoke of. The upside-down realm where the meek inherit, the hungry are filled, and the mourning are comforted.

Until then, I carry this burden. Maybe you do too. It’s not a weakness. It’s a sign of life.

To be morally exhausted is to still have a moral compass.
To feel sorrow at injustice is to still believe in justice.

So no, don’t go numb.
Cry. Pray. Speak when you can. Whisper truth when you can't shout. And remember:

> "Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they shall be filled."

We’re not crazy.
We’re awake.
And that’s sacred.

😌

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