Samira, now living underground in sunless, soulless caves, unable to anticipate the changing of the seasons, and helpless to the elements, with burnt patches and skin lesions. Now suffering beneath the Babylonian spirit industry and hypocrites with cultured countenances. Spiritual influencers without scripture.
Ignored disjunctive accents. Paused without proceeding. Will goodness itself be raised from the dead? Be not faithless but believing, right? Please. Please.
House to house, imprisoned by militant Tribulationist agents of the government. Years and years given to cruel blackmailers. Soft vexations behind the stone. Scrubbed of profanity, but the vulgarity remains. A modern murdered disciple.
“I’m tired of being…” Samira began but could not complete the thought. “Tired of being afraid? Alone? Exhausted? Maybe I’m just tired of being.”
Heaven for height and unsearchable earth for depth. Climb into heaven and dig into hell.
“My body. My hunger.” A human desperation out of her hell. A freedom of confusion. “I’ve stumbled my soul.”
She examined her wounds. Daily injuries and strong stabbings.
“What do you do when the world spins further into chaos? Overwhelmed by a near constant report of collapse. The housefire spreads and our children are electrocuted at school. What do you do when your heart fails, when you faint in days of adversity?”
She sobbed. “My strength is not worth much.”
Proverbs 24:10
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