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Type my friends Characters:


Dec 13, 2013
Instinctual Variant
My friend has written a couple of stories to try to flash out my understanding of Myers Briggs, in this I will give you guys the type I think the characters are, feel free to correct me and please give me an explanation as to why you typed them the way you did. Also my friend is trying to have me guess his type, please help me, if there are any indicators as to what his type may be let me know. :)
Story 1: It is called Eden of Eve and I think the main character is an ENFP or an INFJ.
She lives in beauty,
Like the sky of cloudless climes and starry nights,
All that’s best of darkness and light meet in her shade and in her eyes,
Thus mellowed to that tender light which the heavens look upon with graceful eyes,
One shade the more, one ray the less had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every graceful tress or softly lightens over her face
Where thoughts are sweetly expressed
How sweet, how pure their dwelling place.
And on that cheek, and over that brow,
So eloquent, yet so savage,
A smile that tells of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent.
Dreams are the product of our imagination, the infestations of wonderland, the creation of a neurotic butterfly. A beautiful, graceful haven for the individual. The lucid prophesies of independency. Freedom from the closed minded, and the optical illusions of jokers that try to rule and classify civilizations into generalizations. The theology of a Lewis Carrol as the Cheshire Cat haunts him in the dark with the promotion of self-choice. The salvation of mankind. The name is Alice and I’m tired of people trying to tell me that I need to be a certain way just because I was born the wrong sex. Females are not second-class citizens, witches who are penis envy as the voodoo artist Freud put it. The cursed joker was like the man who came out of the tavern with his umbrella out in a beautiful sunny evening because a divine caterpillar became distracted with her unlimited possibilities as she was watering her roses on the balcony above him. The heathens and heretics can all burn in hell for their generalizations, hail Lesya Ukrainka. I am tired, and grossed out by improper power structures, life should be merited by talent and competence and not by how we were blessed to come out of the womb. To quote Stewie Griffin “what the deuce!” I’m frustrated and tired from a long day at work and with catching up with my assignments.
A gift that’s vain, a gift by chance,
Oh, why has life been given to me?
And why have we been sentenced to death,
By the grimace of fate,
Who has called me forth from nothingness,
Filled my heart with suffering,
And disturbed my mind with anguishing doubt?
There is no hope in front of me,
My heart is empty, my mind lies unused,
And the absurdity of life torments me with anguish” Alexander Pushkin .
Beauty escapes my eyes as I gaze upon the long-winded night. Stars beam at the trees with their stalking shadows and they beam at the howling of the schizophrenic, homeless man as he looks upon the moonlight shadow on the raging river. Who is the one who brought this out of nothingness and left me to ponder on the chance of life… I don’t know, it’s like you know he created this world. If he created it so profane by making the beholder of the fruit of good and evil so seductive and Adam a boorish simpleton that Eve couldn’t help but go exploring, why is it that we should be born diseased and punished for it by the promise of death. It’s like a man who created a porn site, found the addresses of those who visited his site and then murdered them. I have a difficult time understanding this reasoning.
I attend mass once is a while, I find the chorus to be enchanting. It has me thinking of breaking a saint and snorting it as if they were angel dust. How carnivalesque, how quaint, we need another reformation within the information age, within the glorious age of memes and gifs, oh holy Christian introverts, where are you kitties. May the real Martin Luther and John Calvin please stand up, I wish to quote Tweety Bird ‘I taw, I taw a puddy tat.’ I long for the sacrilegious, to be the modern-day Eve, and have the entire world eating the fruit of good and evil. How entertaining it will be if everyone was to be self-aware. This world is topsy-turvy and I simply wish that its institutions will reflect the earthly spirt, instead of hiding in banal hypocrisy. A girl can dream… I dream of running through the green pastures with the beautiful daughter of Zion, as the fairies sing beautiful songs, I wish to drink from the fountain of youth, I never want to grow up.
Life is weird, a Gogolian fantasy, a stroll through wonderland. Life is frightening otherwise, a nightmare of bureaucracy. In my world God is the red queen, the devil is the Cheshire Cat and the Mad Hatter is the saint of time, I stroll through the fabric of reality with my bestie the ever-vanishing Cheshire, unsure of my own existence. Yet the eternal flame of my imagination helps me escape as I stroll through wonderland. Wonderland is a place to see ones idealized potential, and to be liberated through a gap in society, the rabbit hole is everyone’s biggest fear, yet it is the most liberating furnace for the spirit.
In the eternal flame of imagination, the world flips upside- down, social hierarchies invert, sexual restrictions disappear, and everyone takes off their masks to the unlimited potential of the bizarre and the surreal promise of self. Life mimics art, and art is life. In other words, staying alive is an addiction, it is having a loaded pistol in your mouth as the angels sing of the resurrection. I am of course being ironic. If God does exist, then the crux of the question is freedom, is God a liberator from groundlessness as apologists put it, or a big brother figure head that is ready to persecute us at a glance as a Hitchens would put it.
Every second a new being is born,
Every second an old being dies,
The blood of the lamb washes all,
Like a flood of Turkish delight,
What does God want as he sends in the flood of the light,
All are washed in the blood of the lamb,
Elijah is coming, restorer of the church in Zion, is coming.
I overslept this morning, missed class and had an apple piroshky, flushing it down with kvass. I’m running late to my dental appointment, my dentist is located on 334th st, across the church, the block is like a root canal that is begging to be pulled out. I’m numb just by thinking about it. My dentist is an old Russian man, he is five feet eleven, has a giant wart on his nose and carries a thorny beard that at one point had cranberry sauce stuck on it looking as if it’s made from the material that was used on the crown of thorns, he looks as if he is the son to the Baba Yaga. There is a mantle in his office that reads ‘an oak is a tree. A rose is a flower. A deer is an animal. Russia is our fatherland. Death is inevitable.’ According to him it’s from a Russian Grammar textbook from the early 1800’s. I’m sure that I saw a bottle of Smirnoff in his office, this is all so reassuring, I get queasy just thinking about him using razor sharp tools inside my mouth. I can’t afford anything better at the moment as I don’t have insurance. At least I’m not getting my teeth pulled out by a druggie in some alleyway that uses meth as an anesthesia. As the old saying goes ‘count your blessings, as there’s always worse’, and to quote the optimistic, Christian philosopher Leibnitz ‘we live in the best of all possible worlds.’
I’m sitting in the office, there is a fish tank with a gold fish looking upon the office with its dull eyes, contemplating the complexity of life, an air head of simple proportions. It is now swimming at random like a chicken without its head, it looks as if it is intoxicated, as if it is swimming in a goblet of wine, bumping into the dirty glass, as if to break through the glassed prison. Across the room is sitting a handsome, Byronic man, he seems to be of my age. He is tan, has high cheekbones, if I was to slap those cheekbones I would cut myself and he is sporting a trench coat, a Holmes Figure. He is brimming of mystery. A mysterious figure, a tall figure, someone that looks as if he is straight from a romantic novel or from the daydreams of a girl who is dressing up her dolls, dressing them up for the ball to impress the well-mannered suitor. He walks towards me in beautiful strides, and asks if he can sit by me, I of course give him the permission to do so. He says in a deep voice “my name is Elijah”, I give him my name in a soft, timid voice, I’m in rapture. He then goes on to tell me that he goes to the church that’s across the street, and that they’re having youth service there tonight, he invites me over, and I accept his offer, only to be able to see him again. The receptionist calls me over as it is my turn to see the dentist, before I go, he looks me in the eyes, with his gorgeous, big blue eyes and asks me for my number, I give it to him. As I walk into the room, I ponder on why didn’t I tell him that I am a non-believer. I’m having second thoughts on attending church tonight. He texts me as I sit on the reclining gray chair awaiting the dentist, we have a lengthy conversation, I end up telling him that I am a nonbeliever who grew up in a church, attended a Christian school and that I find religion to be disagreeable. He tells me that he would love to discuss things further in person, and that he would love it if I came, that the congregation loves it when a nonbeliever walks in the church and that several of his friends were once in a similar position that I am now in. I tell him that I am different from them but since he is so persistent in my coming that I will attend the service. The appointment was quick, thank God! I can’t wait to see Elijah again. I’m thinking of going with the baby blue dress or the raven skirt and the angelic white blouse. I’ll go with the blouse, the skirt and the black high heels as it compliments my maroon lip gloss. I will be in childish exuberance if Elijah sings songs of praises towards me as Adam did when he first saw Eve, standing amongst the roses, even if it is internally done it will feel eternal, timeless.
The church is a spacious work of art, architectural, gothic perfection. It is domed shaped, covered with red carpeting, spiral stairs leading to a choir, with colons in the back, as if it is a mansion from Athens. Golden colored stair rails go up with the spiraled stairs. The focal point is the podium, a seraph’s altar, the acoustics are perfect, a physicist perhaps helped with the building to make the best of the doppler effect. This is done through a 45-degree slope from the doors to the podium going down. Above it is three stained glasses, the first is of the virgin Mary and the baby Christ, the second is of the angels giving the good news to the shepherds and the third of the Christ with sheep, and adjacent to the stain glass is a balcony with huge windows, the moon and stars parading in bliss. It was a scene to behold, no part of me is tempted to follow in Oscar Wilde’s words “when I step in the sanctuary I take the first moment I can to escape” perhaps he isn’t the one that said it… something is missing from the scene, Elijah didn’t come, I wait upon him, and he doesn’t come, he invited me and yet doesn’t come, the dressing up all came down to nothing, he isn’t here. I do my best to listen to the sermon and what I learn from the preacher is that “God is in the soft, tender voice. The Ravens that visit the prophet, the angel visiting the needy, the passionate fire of the stars that set the altar in flames as Elijah proved that the benefactor of the heart is the I am, he is the nature that encompasses everything, as Blaise Pascal put it “an infinite sphere whose center in everywhere and whose circumference is nowhere.” That what he wants from us is a relationship, this is done through meditating on his word and living for the benefit of others is holiness, under the wings of righteousness. To be filled with the fruits of the spirit and satisfy our spiritual hunger for something greater than us. The fruit of the spirit are love, joy, peace, forbearance, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control. This gives me a new way to view God, a way that makes sense, he isn’t a papa Smurf up in the skies that is looking to punish me but the art that transcends reality, the soft voice of genius in the wind that caresses the green leaves as heavens tears glide down upon them, the tears wetting the fruits of the spirit, I pray for the first time in a long time, a simple prayer, “God if you’re there please reveal yourself to me.” After church I introduce myself to some people and ask about Elijah, they tell me that they don’t know who I am talking about. In confusion I look through my messages and see that the conversation isn’t there, there is no Elijah in my contacts. Did I succumb to my imagination or is this a move from God? Will I succumb to the cynicism of Jezebel or will I wake from my slumber and help make this world a better place? It’s as if I escaped reality in a rocket ship going through a black hole, emerging through a worm hole, immersing in wonderland, heaven is the reflection of the heart. Fin

Story 2: I think the character in which this work is seen through is either an ISFP or INFP.
The world spins on an axis of everlasting sorrow. I drive in the windy roads of the evergreen forest were foxes and wolves ponder on the ever-growing wonders of the hunt as nature deceives them in her playful ways, the magician known as mother nature evolves as the world spins under the watchful eyes of demons and angels the ever deceiving spiritual critters of sorrow and bewilderment. As the hunter stalks the canine under the greenery were pixies pray behind the bark and elves meditate on the everlasting golden streets and pearly gates of New Jerusalem while the hunter’s wife cooks stew out of the meat that the hunter brings home with the cross watching over her. Oh, how blissful the night is, as I driver under the crimson moon on a journey of space and time. All wonderment is lost in my imagination of the hunter as I envision him grazing the bushes as he comes back home as Esau did when he encountered Jacob, he will lose his drive to be a brute with his wife as she feeds him soup, praying that one day he will encounter the real God, how difficult is it to be a woman hoping to one day meet the Virgin Mary and let her know of the tribulations that she had to go through due to her husbands prideful ways, and how deceiving hope can seem under the sorrow of the starry sky. I listen to worship as I ponder on this scene, the pixies must be enjoying themselves as they and the elves go into rest under the watchful eyes of God, the foxes and wolves sit around a campfire and eat smores to their delight as the owls sing tunes for them in all of their understanding and wisdom. As I travel into the distance of the windy road and see that my destination is coming up ahead of me I pray that God helps the outcasts as lucifer sits and watches over them on the broom stick of the slime green witch, why will the apostates not come to realize that they need to turn to God, how vain glorious, I hope that the hunter of my imagination finds solace in his wife’s affection, this world needs salvation, I have finally made it to my destination.

Story 3: I think that Vlad is either an INTJ or ENTJ, Ivan is either an INTP or INFP and that Leanna is an ISFJ
The name is Vlad Lyosukov. I’m a successful 32-year-old business man. My specialty is in construction. I will try to keep this introduction short to be able to get you into the interesting parts. What you need to know is that I am an animal that is going to someday swim in a money vault like the duck from Ducktails. I did it without having to go to college. If you have the know-how and the drive to make money education is nothing more than a formal past time for shaved orangutans. I drive in a brand new, sexy, black Porsche 911 turbo. I enjoy the color black, the darkness is a great reflection of life, my house is a product of dark colors, red, black and linoleum. The art behind my decisions for the house would make a business woman in Barcelona froth. It truly is interior porn, but that’s enough of that, if you don’t get it you’ll never understand it. Interior design is not for the vulgar minded.

The wife’s name is Leanna. We got married over a decade ago because I impregnated her, that is a big deal in my culture. I was seventeen at the time and she was fifteen, we had to get married at Vegas. We were simple minded foreigners with highly conservative parents - we didn’t know better. The only people who attended were our parents, my younger brother, a cop that pulled us over, and a crack headed homeless man that we found at a local donut shop, it was truly a holy event, all I had in this world of sin was her. If my wife was a midcentury antique it would be interesting to discuss her, but she isn’t. What a scoundrel I am - Haha of course I’m joking, either way she is the love of my life, a divine goddess of the 21st century. That’s all I have concerning that boorish topic. Money is the forbidden fruit, the light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. It is the entitlement of Zeus, Muhammad and the Buddha vomited out by the sacred mythical beast known as life.

The second-rate Russian author of thriller books enjoyed putting in tavern scenes in his books rather it be the torments of Raskolnivkov or the religious conversation of the Karamazovs’. How I hate that puffed up prophet. That mad man full of melancholy and sentiment. Dostoevsky loved to put in fluid conversations that are far from anything that happens within the fabric of reality. I would love to be able to watch him rot in hell as I have my emoji tongue sticking out. This segment isn’t going to concern the prophet. It is going to be a conversation that I had with my younger brother. As it wasn’t as fluid as a dostoevskian dream - I will write it down as if it were text messages, a conversation on the web. My brother’s name is Ivan, he is 22 years old, a cold, shark eyed graduate in computers and has also recently gone off the rails as he too is now a Jesus freak. The scene begins with the two of us sitting from one another and is a product of art as I remove all the awkward bits of silence and stammering.

Dear reader you must agree with me that I must not mention the niceties and mannerisms that are expected amongst philistines, small talk is for the weak minded. Give me liberty or give me death, or something along those lines should be how all conversations should begin. Instead of the boorish, “hi, how are you”, “isn’t it a great day”, “the lord has blessed us”, what shriveled up tongues, almost as shriveled as their – I won’t deliver such a vulgar line but you dear reader get the point. It is lucifer’s bastion, the haven for those lacking in genius, I’m repeating myself and should go ahead and get on with my original point. What was that – yes, my conversation with my younger brother who has decided to take the greatest B.S story seriously. It’s almost as ridiculous as the belief in witches, people are afraid of them without even first checking if it is scientifically valid. Before pastors try to cast out the witch’s demons, they should try out the witchcraft for themselves to see if it is real. Pastors who may be reading this I plead that you show the crazed woman pity, please cut yourself and sign a deal with the devil, you’ll only find out that he is nothing more than a water boy, a figure of your imagination. To tell you the truth (just in case a pastor is reading this) I do believe in witches, truth is nothing more than the way we use words, how we decide to categorize things. There is a group of females who seduce pastors, or guys who seduce them, if the pastor is a homosexual, revealing the pastor for who they really are. What grave magic, we need to burn the witches and create the second trimester of the inquisition. It is ridiculous that there are people out there who believe that there are elite apostates who fly around in brooms, have ugly warts on their face and turn into black cats. I wonder if I’ll be able to find an architect who can build me a house with walking chicken feet. I’ll be able to invite the devil to a ball and we will all wear Jewish masks, worshipping Baal until it infuriates the lord to the point that he has us packing to Babylon. I make myself laugh… for those with a master’s in theology (or preferably a PHD) can you please tell me how the devil and God come together to create a dog – poshlust. I need to collect my whims together, here is the conversation:
Me: “Ivan, so you’re a Christian now, why have you decided to believe in the Christ?”
Ivan: “Vlad I have decided to believe in the cross because it is life itself”
Me: “Ivan, what are you talking about, what do you mean by life, you are aware of my opinion… that I believe it is the fantasies of mad men.”
Ivan: “Vlad have you ever imagined what it would feel like to wear the crown of thorns?”
Me: “Vlad, I believe that you have a deeper crux to your question, what is it?”
Ivan: “Nothing more than that it is the foundation of my belief”
Me: “Vlad, you sound like you’re going mad” - I winked at him after saying this, the poor sod took me seriously
Ivan: “Madness has lead me to doubt. People say that Christians are cowards who chase after peace and hope from the old-fashioned dopamine dealer, yet the beauty of the cross has lead me to bow down at the feet of his throne.”
Me: “Ivan please go on, please explain to me how exactly it is that you get to the feet of his throne”
Ivan: “Vlad, God is a mathematical point and if we were to look at it through a fuller, richer dimension we will notice that it is a spiral, I need to continue walking up those steps if I don’t I will be lost in the suffocating fog.”
Me: “You sound like an existentialist, please drop this, you are making an idiot out of yourself, and I won’t allow that in my younger brother,” you do have to respect his use of imagery and language though, the kid is smart “existentialism can only be spoken off in irony, Vlad it is poshlust. A bunch of old French guys meeting up in cafés having nothing better to do with their time, Vlad the truth is that you are doing this for that girl.” He smirks at me.
Ivan: “She is paradise, I must continue to walk up the stairway of heaven”
Me: “Now you’re going to give up your life, I bet you’re not having sex with her, that’s the only stairways of heaven that matter in this lifetime. This supposed stairway is nothing more than an optical illusion created by a phantom of the imagination. God is too old fashioned for anyone to take seriously and the devil is hanging out at the courts of death. Your little girlfriend is too stupid to even realize this, she seems like paradise, perfection, Ivan you’re an idiot. The truth is that she is too boring for the devil to want to have anything to do with her and too stupid to even be able to doubt her precious God. If you do have an unquenchable desire to believe in a God, imagine a circus freak juggling planets.
Ivan: “Vlad please take that back”
Me: “Ivan, I’m sorry. Ivan, you must realize that faith is nothing more than a merry go round ride, and once it stops the pixies fear that gravity will halt for a mere second and it will make mountains fall into oceans, and people are not ready for such madness, it’s all smoke and mirrors, a magic show. Don’t you recognize how ironic you’re being, the parody that you are creating for yourself? Ivan grow up, life is a game of Russian roulette and your God is the loaded revolver”
After this there was a great silence, Ivan looked at the floor and I believe that I saw some tears blurring those beautiful blue eyes, it was as if the heavens themselves were crying. I decided to give him a moment, I went to go grab myself a beer, did I go too far? He must be a man, and if he can’t deal with this, how is he supposed to be able to follow his mad man while carrying his cross. It is a wonder to see those once cold eyes clouded with tears.
Me: “Ivan would you like to continue with this conversation.”
Ivan: “Vlad, idealism may be grotesque. Sentiments may be fantastic fairy tales, the product of evolution. God may be the thin veneer between vision and fate, as you would say a ploy to control the masses, yet I continuously feel like I’m being haunted by a ghost of genius that’s telling me that it’s okay to shed a tear, do you understand what I’m saying?” This reminded me of the dream that he used to have as a child.
Me: “Ivan do you remember the constant dream you had when you were young, the dream of the Seraphims’ and Cherubs dancing to the music of Bach with a Latin choir in the background… if I remember correctly you described yourself as whiter than snow in the dream. You also mentioned sitting next to a shark eyed, razor toothed mermaid that was ready to devour you at any moment as if you were cherry pirozhki”
Even if Ivan may try to hide it, he is a sentimentalist, a predisposed figure for the cross. I’m just happy that he hasn’t gone with the Dostoevskian approach of asking me if I don’t worship a God that must mean that I myself have made myself into a God. As if I was Nebuchadnezzar himself and he was simply waiting for his God to make me go on all fours and prance around like a goat seeking out hay. It would at least put us on equal footing him (the idiotic Christian) being sheepish and all. Ivan is a big fan of the writer and seems to have gained a different understanding…
Ivan: “Vlad I can’t help but sense as if you are mocking me. Yes, I do have visions and do have beautiful images that put my spirit to bliss. That is not the foundation, my foundation is freedom, Vlad God changed me, he loves you.”
Me: “Ivan that is beautiful, I must go, my wife is expecting me”
Ivan: “Vlad may I pray for you”
I allowed him to pray for me, I don’t think there is any point in it, but if it puts his soul to rest than why not? I simply find it sad that he has gone into the way – Ivan is a riddle that sees angels in coincidences, it’s as if he is trying to use pure chance to tie a knot around his neck and then call it faith. Why is it that intelligent men are capable of such ridiculous notions?

I find it interesting that he calls her paradise, as if Adam would’ve called Eve Eden after the fall. As if a pseudo Cupid would’ve shot Steve for looking at Adam and bring in the anguish of the Cherubim of the ark as Eve looks back only to become a pillar of salt. What is love, if nothing more than a chemical reaction. It is madness, with a sacred ritual performed in the midst of candles and icons. I am against homosexuality as it goes against the law of reproduction. My wife Leanna truly is a goddess as I stated earlier, a beautiful pinup with intelligence. If the World Mission Society Church of God believes and worships a Mother God, it is Leanna that they are worshipping. I don’t understand why she worships God, and cares so much for what Nietzsche called “slaves”. She says it has something to do with the Tolstoyan movement of old, calling it Christian Anarchism. I don’t understand why she is listening to that dead quack, the opinions of the dead should stay with the dead rather it be Tolstoy, the Christ, Norma Jeane, or Apostol Paul. Allow those great figures to rest in peace instead of bringing up their names, they were mortal and yet we make them immortal, while forgetting about the billions of simpletons who couldn’t make a name for themselves. Yet they say that love is eternal, I love my child, I really do. Her name is Irina and she is a brilliant 15-year-old who wants to be a Doctor, she wants to save lives, even those that are nothing more than pawns, or who can’t put their share in rowing the canoe that is society. An innocent, naïve heart which may someday grow up as Apostol Paul puts it “when I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I put the ways of childhood behind me.” I’m not sure if her dreams are childish, perhaps it is important to care for the lazy talentless bums too, but as the business owner of the NT puts it to the man who hid his talent, “you wicked and slothful servant! You knew that I reap where I have not sown and gather where I scattered no seed? Then you ought to have invested my money with the bankers, and at my coming I should have received what was my own with interest. So, take the talent from him and give it to him who has the ten talents. For to everyone who has will more be given, and he will have an abundance. But from the one who has not, even what he has will be taken away. And cast the worthless servant into the outer darkness. In that place there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth.” I wonder if Tolstoy considered this passage of the Bible when he decided to create a religion in his old nihilistic tendencies of peace, poverty, and love. Yet love persists, I may not understand Leanna’s or Irina’s forbidden forests, but I will tear limb for limb anyone who harms them. One a goddess who believes in ghoulish fairy tales and the other a young humanitarian agnostic who truly wants to make the world a better place. It is love that keeps us together, as I said earlier madness. Ivan too is a mad man who has found the Rusalka (mermaid) of his childhood dreams, he calls her that because due to her godliness she has drowned perverts through the feminine tool of rejection. He even wrote a love letter to her, one that I believe truly puts the madness forward in graceful prose, I hope no one takes offense if I share it here. As long as I can remember I viewed love as a chemical defect, human error, with bumbling fools such as the romantics in the forefront ‘I could be martyred for my religion – love is my religion – I can die for that” and yet here I am trying to understand my own emotions. Quasimodo comes to mind “suddenly an angel smiles at me, I swear this must be heavens light” my spirit flutters like God’s dove in radiance. As if I sit under the tree bearing the fruits of the spirit and watch as the sun reflects the glittering colorful leaves. As the tear drops of heaven glide down, creating a fragrance that can only be described as life, joy, peace and goodness to name a few marketing slogans. I am at a loss of words as I hear the angels sing, how can I explain to you my happiness, my golden blessed happiness. I can’t even write words without imagining how you’ll pronounce it, how dare I try to tell you anything in words, how does one even began to try to describe such a divine, pure, beautiful light, such grace can only come from one of God’s Queens. This is all coming out completely wrong, with you one needs to talk wonderfully. For my own health as I fear that I will be crippled by my own madness, I will once more try to explain my soul in this whirlwind… An hour with you is like a second, a second is like eternity, here is Eden, how can I focus when the tree of life is amongst the damned rats in this house of mirrors. Gravity is nonsense, an unnecessary commodity, the tears of angels as they watch a fool fantasize about the immortality in one of Gods holy daughters. Jesus Christ please help me, this is all wrong. I simply want to tell you that somehow I can’t imagine life without you. I love you, I want you, I need you unbearably… Lord I need your help – I can’t stop myself from writing – Lord please give me wisdom. Rusalka your eyes, your voice… you came into my life – not as one comes to visit, but as one comes to a kingdom where all the rivers have been waiting for your reflection, all the roads for your steps. Perhaps paradise is not the cobwebs of a spider but is in fact love.

I’m at a loss of words. How does one speak in such a moment, what happens after death? Do we honestly become nothing more than voiceless, reeking animals without context? Perhaps death is an ever-evolving mythical beast, I’ve become sentimental after I heard the news. My wife has only six more months to live. Leanna has brain cancer, my dear wife, the doctor said it is untreatable. Dear reader of mine, do not even dare to laugh at the irony. Irina is with Leanna at the moment in tears, how could this have happened. Whose sick joke is this, who dares. You may be saying that it is another function of life, that mortality is to be expected, and that our bodies are full of flaws, errors, malfunctions. That death is the only thing that we can count for from all human beings. As the Hellenistic syllogism goes, if my neighbor is mortal than we can logically deduce that I too am mortal. Who needs that, why this rubbish, if there is a Lord why didn’t he protect her from cancer. I am at a loss of words, I too can’t help her. People pray and pray for blessings but do they ever truly come, I am more successful than those whose parents pray for them. What is success, this is ridiculous, I am once again making this about myself. How can I comfort them? I will be there with her till the end of time. In this world of sin all I ever truly needed was her, and now she is soon going to be gone. I at least still have Irina, but how will she cope without a mother. Leanna smiles at us and says everything is going to be okay, that she will soon be with the Lord and will look over us as an angel does. That she will always keep us in her prayers, she is the strongest one of us, she is my cornerstone. She goes on praying, why does she do that, why won’t she raise her voice against her God for doing this to her, for allowing it to happen. She continues being an enigma. Christian parents protect their children from the wolf that wears sheep clothing but perhaps your God is a wolf wearing sheep clothing. Leanna smiles at me with meek eyes, she says that God loves me and that she knows that someday I will turn to him for help and comfort. Why would I do something so unjust. Irina has been praying after hearing the news, reading the good news, and is now going to church with Leanna, I too go with them. The pastor goes on about how the Lord loves us, always taking money and is supposedly using it for orphans in third world countries. If he is taking any of it for himself than I hope someone that knows will tie a boulder around his neck and throw him into the ocean. I am doing this for her, her voice is the eternal ringing of my ears, the aesthetic bliss of my dark world. She seems to have escaped this world, she radiates like an angel even though chemo has her looking like a tailless monkey. Irina says she wants to find the cure for cancer, Leanna looks at her and says trust the Lord, he is the eternal cure to all of our problems here on earth. I still don’t believe in this sentimental rubbish, I look at her and smile, I may not believe in God but I do believe in her. We are together more as a family, I haven’t been involved with work lately, how can I be, work is not life, family is life. A warmth crawls down my spine while I’m in Leanna’s presence - blissful joy. I am not the nebula of the mall, the center of the universe. I have always known this fact but now I am truly experiencing it. What beautiful flower crowns they wore earlier today; made from dandelions. It had me remember when I was a child airing out their older ancestors and my awe as I watched them fly up into the blue and yellow sky as I made a wish, oh blissful Ukraine, blessed world, Eden where have you gone. I will do everything I can do from this moment on to make sure Irina’s life is paradise, Leanna chuckles at my ideas. She says since man ate from the tree of good and evil we can’t ever truly forever live in peace, and joy while here on this earth, but that she thinks my intention is pure and that I will do a good job in continuing to raise Irina. I have been a terrible father and husband yet she still loved me and never gave up on me. She seems to have eternal joy within her, a radiant light hotter than the sun. She died later that night, I won’t go on about the funeral with their rituals and traditions, I never cared for other people. Ivan told me to call him whenever I needed help or company. I and Irina walked up to the casket together, she looked up and saw me in tears, she told me Papa she’ll forever be with us, in our dreams, in our waking hours, and we will soon be with her. I smiled at her but didn’t say a word, she is right, Leanna will now be a ghost of inspiration.

Irina has been coping well, she is doing great at school, has several friends, and is leading a Bible study at the church. I am proud of her, and I swear if any boy looks at her the wrong way I will rip his intestines out and hang him like a ripped open piñata for all the other perverts to have a good look at, the spectacle, one good horse laugh is better than a hundred arguments. I am walking to the cemetery, it is 2 A.M. The cemetery is an hour walk from my place. Numbness pains my heart, madness has engulfed me, a drowsy numbness pains my senses. It seems as if I have emptied a dull opiate down my drains. The heavy-winged seraphim’s sing hosanna in full throated-ease, my vision is blurring. My lips are trembling, tears trickle down my cheek, I am burning in fever, I trudge on. For a draft of life! The mall’s sink down into the long abyss in the deep-delved earth. My life has been a sham, what use are my acquisition’s? My thoughts are leaving reality I am becoming crazed. The scenery tastes of floral and of country green, the pixies dance to classical and sunburnt playfulness. Don’t the Christians seem to be full of joy as they sing third rate lyrics behind the chords of the organ played by a wrinkly dinosaur, why couldn’t God take her away instead of my Leanna. O for a beaker of opium, full of truth I imagine standing in the courts of Lucifer, oh he is easy to believe in, the blushful nymph winks as I drink from the Hippocrene with bubbles winking at the brim. I hope I may never escape my fantasy, and leave the world unseen, and fade away into the forest. What terrible thoughts I am having.

How can I possibly be thinking such evil thoughts at a moment like this, Lord if you are there please take my soul and damn me forever, but how will Irina cope, I look up into the sky and think of Leanna, is she smiling down at me from the heavens, what ridiculous thoughts. I am fully aware that if God is real that he exists outside of space and time, oh only if I could live in timelessness where everything remains as it is, where I can still embrace Leanna. To fade far away from this world, evaporate and forget what the leaves have never known, the anxiety of fever, and impatience, where men sit and hear each other groan. But I mustn’t commit suicide, above all else I must continue to trudge on. This world is a joke, space and time are a joke, simply thinking here means to be full of sorrow, beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes here. Away! Away! Death I will fly to you, not charioted on God’s chariot, the one that took Elijah, but on the view-less wings of the night. There is no light, save perhaps what is given to me from heaven with the breezes blown. I can’t see what flowers are at my feet, I don’t know what soft incense hangs upon the trees, in embalmed darkness, I guess that each is sweet. The earth gives birth to the grass, bushes, and the fruit trees, white hawthorn, cherry blossoms and the pastoral rose, but it also takes away life, that is the genius of fate. I listen to the haunt of flies, I am falling half in love with easeful death, I call her soft names in amusing rhyme to take into the air my quiet breath. You were not born for death, immortal eagle! The voice that I hear was heard in ancient Jerusalem by prophet and clown, perhaps the self-same song found a path through the sad heart of Ruth, when sick for home she stood amidst the foreign corn. I come to the marble gravestone that has Leanna’s casket under it. I began remembering all of our memories, the happy ones, the time we got married, the time we had Irina and then the terrible ones come flooding in as if cursed, demonic parrots, I can’t believe how I treated her when she was still alive, I begin trembling without control. I fall on my knees and try to pray for forgiveness but the words won’t come out. I can’t control the shaking, I can’t control my tongue, what a blazed fire our own egos are. I lay down on her, hoping, pleading to her that I will be a better man, the man she always knew I can be. I kiss the gravestone and read her epitaph “loving wife and mother, John 3:16.” Lord forgive me, I can’t do this on my own, rather you are there or not, I want to believe in you, I beg you lord help me, impart your wisdom unto me, please I beg you. She was paradise, she was love, she was joy, she was goodness, she was life. Lord it is because of your love that you went on that cross, the infants of the massacre judge men with you, as angels they watch us in tears as we continuously go against you. They must at times believe that their sacrifice was a waste on us, how could they not, lord help me to live up to the cross, to Leanna, and to all the martyrs of truth. I look up to the east and see the star of David to the west I see the shadow of a cross on top of a grave stone.

Story 4: Is about a philosopher and Scientist. I think the philosopher is an ENTP and the Scientist is an ISTP.
This is a message against the ideas of nihilism and new age spirituality, spirituality that isn’t focused on Christ. This is a reflection on todays times, on the dark web and people using it to find salvation, to find salvation in evil, a world where God is dead and the devil runs the show, people have made the Devil their God. Without God we will try to find salvation and answers in the darkest of places as Nabokov showed in his book Lolita.
This is a tale of a philosopher and a scientist, both young males in their early twenties.
The philosopher is a stocky built man, has gray eyes, dimples, and is often compared to Phillip Gallagher. He has a hunger for spiritual wonder, is a connoisseur of sorts, seeking art for the sake of art, and wisdom for the sake of wisdom. The scientist is an anorexic man, carries a face that resembles that of a chipmunk’s, with high cheekbones, a broad chin, and blue eyes, a man of rare beauty, a man that gives a young Brad Pitt a run for his money. A sullen man of darkness, loneliness and the look of death shadowing his eyes. People that have looked into his eyes for long walk away unable to tell time and differentiate the sensuous capsule that is life from the loneliness of nothingness. The cradle between the two abysses becomes groundless. A loaded pistol grows in the cradle as they can’t escape the unsettling effect that was left from meeting our scientist. It is as if they saw Lazarus come back from the dead and shared in the coldness of the silence that comes from coming out of the sacred, gothic temple that is death. I walk through the roads and ponder on the mystical event that is the lives of these two young men. I walk through a parking lot and see the asphalt’s colorful parakeet on the ground where oil and water shared a relationship and synthesized into pride. This is a tale of madness, love, betrayal and freedom. I pray that God helps me to tell this story accurately, to help me retell their story with precision in all its haunting mystery and gothic mysticism. This is my recollection…
It is strange how a memory will grow into a wax figure, how the cherub grows suspiciously prettier as its frame darkens with age-strange, strange are the mishaps of memory – Vladimir Nabokov
The philosopher was a philosopher before he even knew what philosophy was. An introspective young boy, with a cheerful domineer for adventure, and a loud laugh that can be heard throughout the neighborhood. From a young age he was called ‘philosopher’ as he had a ponderous mind, one that couldn’t help but ponder on the mysteries of the Bible, the complexities of God’s personality, the paradox of mercy and justice coming into one, supreme being, and the subtle cleverness of the prince of lies and his wolf pack of clever deceivers. He pondered and pondered on the inconsistencies of omnipresence, omniscience, how can one know all from alpha to omega, yet have wrath when people disobey, the beauty of freedom in allowing choice through the planting of the delicious fruit from the tree of good and life, and hungering for the tree of life, the philosophical stone which crux was in the cross. He felt that it all came together through the concept of the spirit, but what is the spirit, what is consciousness and what sends us to ponder on the mysteries of life. He was a clever child, one of exuberance and yet the seriousness of a logician. He believed that the spirit is seen in death and it is the transfiguration of the flesh into a new being, the madness that brought chaos into the cosmos, the stream of consciousness into fluid thought, he as a child couldn’t express it in those words but he felt it intuitively, the spirit was the dancing of particles that form the bane of thought, the filtering of the angels versus the demons, the running thoughts that come from the neurons interacting with one another, and synapses directing the senses into action. Dancing particles creating a white aurora like breath in the cold of night. He expressed this to the scientist one sunny day, at the park next to the scientist’s house. The philosopher sat on the gravel while the scientist was doing pull ups on the monkey bars, next to the flower beds of yellow tulips, orange, red and yellow roses and green bushes whose leaves glistened to the reflection of the sun. The two met in class earlier that year and came together as friends in their curiosity for knowledge, their love of reading, and other shared interests. From what I remember they were in the sixth grade and had just entered junior high school. This was the first time they met outside of the school. The philosopher for the last several months spent time trying to get the scientist to accept the power of imagination instead of just cold facts, and it was working, the explaining of his idea concerning the spirit especially inspired the scientist. The scientist asked the philosopher, “how does one go about seeing the spirit, how does one conduct a science experiment to prove the existence of the spirit?” The philosopher responded by saying “to see the spirit I believe that we must have a lower being overcome and kill a higher being, such as a mouse kiling a cat, and at the point of death we will be able to see the spirit.” The scientist asked, “how will we go about doing this?” The philosopher told him that we must inject steroids into the mouse, put them in a gated area and watch a death match between the two, this is of course animal cruelty. They used kitchen and cleaning appliances to create homemade steroids, they were truly chemists, and intellectuals that put their action into plan. The mouse killed the cat, and then died shortly afterwards but there was no seeing the spirit. The scientist fell into disappointment and asked the philosopher why he didn’t see it. The philosopher speculated that perhaps it can only be done if we do the experiment on humans. Perhaps through the concept of beauty, jokingly said “If you want to see the spirit you need to find an ugly man, make a monster out of him like Frankenstein’s monster, and do the experiment with beautiful women, women that are a ten, have the monster have sex with the women and kill them at spasm, while this is happening you the scientist should make fun of them while holding a camera up, but don’t do this because if you do in the process you’ll fall into madness, and only in that state of mind will you see their spirits.” The scientist in a serious expression asked, “what will happen then?” The philosopher expressed that “you will fall into madness and will want to commit suicide for what you’ve done.” The scientist was in love with the philosopher and made it his goal to prove the philosopher’s theory and asked, “how do I go about luring the girls?” The philosopher told him without realizing his intent, “lure them in with the promise of sex, and promise them that they will see the philosopher who will share the secrets of heaven with them, make them sign a long agreement that they will not want to read to keep yourself from getting in trouble,” and added “it should take place in a haunted house." The scientist becoming more curious of this strange talk, ponders and asks, “how would the suicide be committed?” The philosopher in jest says “it will be in a way that symbolizes his life transcending him into the stratosphere of the infinite and making him into a God, like in the crucifixion of the mad man that preached the truth, undermined Rome and rebelled against the Jewish institution. I believe that if you were to do this then you will make money by creating a new porn industry through the production of snuff videos, create a spirit by knowing its properties, so the money, the spirit and the scientific research should be present at the death scene to symbolize the life that went against the institution of this world. The means to go about it would be an overdosage of heroine to symbolize the madness, the room should be decorated with mountains of it, and you should have both middle fingers out and your tongue sticking out in rebellion against the Earth and it institutions, this will transfigure you into a God and you can say as Skovoroda did ‘the world tried to catch me and could not.’” “I don’t understand” the scientist responded, “will I be going against the church and how is this going against the world.” The Philosopher shared with him that this is the secret of Nietzsche’s Ubermensch, “you will transcend the church by rebelling against God through rebelling even though you came with the mathematical proof that proves his existence, you will become all too human,” the philosopher winks at the scientist. The philosopher’s mom came to pick him up and the scientist went home with the birth of a new obsession.
He did it, the scientist at the age of seventeen went through with it and it went as the philosopher had foreshadowed it, the outcome came as the philosopher said it would. He felt religious ecstasy every time he saw a spirt, and felt like God himself when he created the spirit. The scientist survived the suicidal attempt and arose from cardiac arrest on the third day and was escorted to a looney bin in Chicago. The bully that was the scientist’s puppet and made into a monster was found dead. The philosopher grew up to becoming a heretic in his late teens, the spirit that the scientist created visited him in his dreams and told him that he’ll crucify him in top of his parents’ church, nailed by his middle fingers making him into a God. The philosopher woke screaming, kicking, repenting and begging God to set him free from his self-created damned chains, little did he know about the scientist’s survival due to their estrangement at the time, it was discovered that the philosopher is demon possessed and demons were casted out of him. The intellectuals labeled the atrocious event under the psychological illness of schizophrenia, the Christians as lost souls in need of God and some even speculated that the girls went through with it for the fun of it, to also experience madness, it’s all too human. Dear reader what conclusions may we draw about the spirit? You may be asking about yourself what is currently taking place with these young men, to make a long story short they found freedom from their bondage's, their freedom was found in the grace of Christ and they became slaves to righteousness by casting their egos aside, reading and meditating on the Bible as well as praying.

Story 5: its a Christmas story and I think that the Vasilyi is an ENFP struggling with Schizophrenia.
O blessed night, o twinkling night, winter wonderland is upon us, this is the season to be joyful and sing praises as the devil is run out of the corners of the dark corridors of Hell by the simple sinners, the devil with his head lobbed off and his tail between his legs, this is what I have depicted in this story.. The simple folk have the kingdom to look forward too, the night is upon us, the night of merriment and grace, where sinners are free for one day to beam at an angel and remember the shepherds on the faithful night of the message that the messiah has been born.
O blessed night, o snowy night, winter wonderland is upon us, this is the season to be joyful and sing praises as the virgin Mary was visited by an angel, the angel that placed the star of David for the wise men to follow with the gifts of myrrh, gold and frankincense. The virgin Mary and Joseph triumphed over the devil by journeying to their birth place and even though the devil made it difficult on them they were able to find a simple, elegant, manger where the blackened goats, and white sheep where able to stand around them to see the birth of the Messiah. The three wise men found the once glorious Harold and told him of the birth of the king, Harold becoming jealous created many martyrs for the kingdom of the king by going on a murder spree in Israel’s weakest tribe, Benjamin. The king was born of the weakest tribe and triumphed over sin, he was born in Bethlehem and didn’t succumb to the temptation of power and authority but allowed the martyrs to judge the rulers that don’t bow their heads to the holy father.
Our tale takes place during the Christmas season. It is raining with icy winds, some people are contemplating that the rain comes from God to continue showering the evergreens from above, some people think it is the natural order of the climate of our state and the natural order of things, while a third esoteric type think that the Devil, and the Witch are flying over us pouring down rain powder to give us misty skies and rainy days in order to curse those that try to sneak the fact that they’re smoking from their terrifying wives. One such free thinker is Vasyli. There are allot of rumors of Vasyli, some say that he is incapable of thinking, others say he enjoys playing the buffoon, the later group likes to use the example of his especially unique way of flirting with women, there is a rumor that he once went up to a simple, pious, young girl of the age of 17 and told her that she should join Femen, that the shame of nakedness is a sin as this shame was only experienced after Adam and Eve ate from the tree of Good and Evil and is therefore a feeling one gets from being separated from God, and therefore one can deduce that joining a group of women who are known to protest in the nude against sex trafficking and for feminism is godly. One can argue that this is witty, but the simple folk argue that he is a giant wart on a bald head. He is said to be a dreamer and a drunk, back when he was in school he day dreamed about being Azazel, as you probably know is the spirit of the desert, or the spirit of death, (the spirit to which the yearly sacrifice was sent to before the ultimate sacrifice whom is Christ) and his proposition of becoming Azazel was by sleeping with the entire district by convincing women that he is gay and trying to get them to make him straight and then blowing his brains and making it look like a murder by saying his brain was hacked putting the police men into a goose chase, he then thought that he would magically resurrect from the grave and will be given a new body, that of a woman’s. It is a wonder that he was able to get married at all, and many have wondered why his wife sticks around with him. O look there he comes out of the tavern on all fours, howling at the moon with a cigarette in his mouth, looking like a reindeer with its tail at the wrong end of the body, a nightmare of anatomy, he has antlers on top of his head. This tale isn’t about Vasyli but about his wife Kate.
Kate is a homely woman, a peaceful caretaker who has stuck to her husband in all the good and the bad, in his buffoonery and foolishness as well as his sweetly moments. When asked what it is that she sees in Vasyli she says that he is a sweet man, a man of caring moments but that devil has his way with him, she is a simple woman. She stands there washing red, blue and white dishes thinking of being a bald eagle, or folding clothes thinking and praying for a white Christmas, but where will the bald eagle rest her head if there is snow, she knows deep down in her heart that God will provide the eagle with a nest as it says so in the Bible. She prays for her husband, day and night, praying and cleaning, that is her life, not for a moment does she judge her husband even though she has every reason to judge him and not for a moment does she cease to pray for him and to remember her savior, whom is Christ, but she wont sleep on the same bed as her husband as he reeks of alcohol and cigarettes even though he tries to hide it by eating garlic. When he gets home on all fours speaking gibberish about a group of elf stalking him on top of trees, she runs to her room and she prays for him, where does he get all of these ideas from, she runs back to him and she asks him do you see them, he tells her with dilated eyes, I have a third eye. She asks him why you don’t see good things; he asks her like what, and she tells him the manger and the cross, the circular story of faith and grace, that of the year and the holidays. He wonders and ponders what if his simple wife is right, but what gibberish is she speaking, he hasn’t read the Bible in a long time and has forgotten the stories of grace and love that his wife dearly holds close to her heart. He asks her where she gets these stories from and she opens up the gospel of Matthew, and he is transported into a different world, the world of Bethlehem, Jerusalem and Golgotha, thanking the messenger for the gift, he realizes he is simply a child of God's and that he most quit smoking and drinking, and that his wife is an angel, the angel that stuck the star of David in his skies and the messenger to guide him to the baby Christ and therefore beauty and grace. Together with his wife he will clip the tail and horns of the devil and change the course of his spirit, he tells her this and she tells him that he needs to go back on his meds and that if he was willing they’ll worship the Lord together once he is sober. They go on to singing carols in peace and joy, the Christ is born, Merry Christmas.

Writing 6: Is called Journaling of a young scientist, I think that he is more of a philosopher than a scientist and his type is INTP.
December 1 2019:
There is a magician behind nature. I can't prove it but I'm sure there is. He enjoys deceiving us and revealing himself to us, he enjoys playing tricks on us mere mortals, he is like the katydid or the phasmatodea. Life is a stage and the magician is the director behind the scenes working his tricks as we come to understand our roles and how to best fulfill our role in this life. I have been pondering about life, I don't understand it, it is mystifying, bewildering and I hope that I can come to understand it. I personally try to avoid cognitive dissonances, I enjoy being uncertain and not labeling and categorizing my ideas, I don't enjoy isms.
One thing I'm certain of is that life is transparent, a dream and perhaps an illusion, one that I will someday wake up from and perhaps transcend death like the Buddha or Socrates. I've been pondering on the idea of the resurrection. I've learned about the Russian philosophical movement of Futurism, it claims that through science we will be able to resurrect the dead. I understand it as making zombies or perhaps Frankenstein's monster. The Ukrainians also have a theory on resurrection, I believe it was the philosopher Gregory Skovoroda who thought it, it goes in the lines that we are all dead people in living bodies awaiting to be resurrected and become truly alive. I understand it through the quantum physics idea of the Schrodinger's cat experiment, I understand that the person can be both dead or alive, but how can a person be both dead and alive, going by this we can't prove Skovoroda but there is Copenhagen interpretation of quantum mechanics, in my opinion it was disproved by Schrodinger. Perhaps Skovoroda was talking about the spirit, soul, which from what I remember he was and if it is looked as an entity outside of the body or the animation of the body then it is possible... on second note if the soul is dead can it truly be able to create thought, the soul seems to me to be on a spiritual spectrum, of negative and positive variables otherwise we would be incapable of thought. If one argues that it is all or nothing then I would call them mad, and perhaps their spirit is the ontological variable of madness, and out of destruction comes creation, that they are a product of inertia, a flat zero. I personally don't believe there is a soul, I believe that I function through synapses. Neurology over theology! Everything becomes transparent through the scientific method, and experimentation. After I wake up from this dream, eternity will pass right through me and I will be in nothingness. Death is boring! I would like to become the next Einstein, I have read that Einstein looked at science as the key to understanding God's mind and that the more he learned about the natural world the more he believed in God, he was in awe of the unknown. Unlike Einstein I do believe that "God" plays with dice.
Dec 2 2019:
I had a dream last night, there was light in the background as if it was from a fluorescent light-bulb. I heard trumpets playing then came a booming voice that said "for God so loved the world that he gave his one and only son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life." After I woke up I went straight to the ER to check if I have a brain tumor, the results came back that I have a healthy mind. Did my brain play tricks on me or is this something supernatural. Either way I have goosebumps just thinking about it. I know the formula of making gun powder, yet can't figure out my dream, it seems illogical, it is as if someone is asking to be shot. I am full of angst, it's as if time is an ocean and every second is a raindrop.
Dec 3 2019:
According to neurologists our brain thinks 400 milliseconds before the thought is thought, making free will obsolete. I brought this deterministic idea up to an apologetic thinker and he responded back by saying, "was this thought determined or do you actually believe it, how did you reach this conclusion? Was it the firing of neurons or actual objective thought." I saw his point if we were nothing more than firing neurons we wouldn't be able to make objective thought. I believe that he proved the neurologists wrong, perhaps there is a spirit behind the soul, perhaps the soul and spirit are real, and prove determinism wrong, I believe that they are and that they do. Art, philosophy, science are products of human imagination and imagination comes from the soul.
I brought up the dream I had to him and he told me of witnessing a man without an eye grow back an eye after a prayer warrior placed his hand on it and prayed for it, that just like this miracle my dream is from God, I gave my life to God this night, I'll resurrect from the dead by being born again.

The last Writing is called Margaritas Hope and I think Margarita is either an ISFJ or ESFJ.
The sun’s light beams through the stained green glass of the church putting Margarita in the spotlight as she prays facing the podium. Margarita has been praying for an answer from God, she’s been praying for God to strengthen her faith as she has yet to receive the answer to her prayers concerning the purpose of her life, and the questions pertaining to her heart have been questions that have lead to her to doubt God’s existence. As the man that went up to Jesus concerning his son she is praying, “Lord I believe, help my unbelief!” She wishes she can hear the heartbeat of God as John did when he laid his head on Christ’s chest. To be a woman after God’s own heart!
The church has moth bites throughout, posters of psalms on its walls, and fake green plants in its entrance. There is a poster of green, lush woods, with a stream of living water cutting it in half. The doors are worn out. Outside of the church there is snow and the trees are decaying, but the sun is melting the snow and there is hope that the tulips will grow again in the spring, these conditions are the state of her heart, the turning point of winter into spring, from decay to the blossoming of the soul. Margarita weeps at the condition of the church and she remembers the poster she saw as she went into the church that has been empty for years, a hunted church full of angels, and demons prying at its doors trying to collapse the walls in. The green light is a visit from God himself to remind her that spring is coming and that her heart will be put to rest as the plants and animals are in the spring that there will be merriment and action, and there is hope in her heart that God hasn’t left her or this church behind. The white cross on its roof will stand in pride and not in destruction as her soul will not decay into depression but in self-love, love for Christ and love for Gods creation, this is what Margarita hopes in.
While she is praying Margarita hears a soft whisper telling her that God works in his own time, and his timing is perfect, that he will answer her prayers and she should follow her heart and allow fate to take her to her destination. She knows that she wanted to do something with the church and with God's condolence she renovated the church and opened it up as a wedding hall and for wedding reception in remembrance of the feast that Christ is preparing for his church and the idea sparked in her mind while reading the Song of Solomon. This church will now be a sacred temple of the institution of love! She opened it for public use during the spring, the bridesmaids joyfully picked up the tulips and the groom gave their bride a rose before they kissed them, the flowers grew in the garden in front of the church, and the trees were full of life, the platform was a success.