Pura Vida

This is a surfing term meaning ‘staying with rapture.’ If you adopt this deep-meaning philosophy into your personal life, you may likely merit attention from the thought police, who will use desperate measures to eradicate it from you, once they’ve falsely imprisoned you for nish. They’re grossed out by anything noble or true, by the looks of it. I’ve never been surfing in my life, nor am I ever likely to, but I do appreciate this tenet very dearly. I’ve wrote it on my calendar in big letters, and sprayed it on my wall. I’m just waiting for the tattoo.

Together, along with finding my love again, and also being ‘In Christ’, I am able to stand again without needing a heart of ice. My heart has been torn from my chest plate, yet now, with this system, I am able to feel joy again. Love and joy, you won’t need lecturing about, are priceless commodities. Very highly treasured indeed. Owning any of these stocks can land you in extremely serious trouble in my experience. They automatically make you a target for the enemy who delights in trying to remove earnest inheritances from other people’s lives.

Morbid and bland sadomasochists would sell their own grandmothers for a cookie of joy. They wouldn’t think twice about breaking into your home and hurting your pet to remove happiness from you. They cannot bear to tolerate it for a moment as similarly as ‘us good guys’ cannot tolerate innocent bloodshed. I’m beginning to wonder that pleasant feelings of glee physically upset the vibrational frequency of these harsh sinners.

Unlucky as it might be, I’ve had my brain hooked up and connected to a network of lowly felons, and it just so happens that every time I manage to engineer a happy feeling in the face of their merciless wrath, they all lose their minds and start freaking out in anger. After trying for years to kidnap me, and assassinate me, they have finally had to settle for being nothing more than annoying nuisances who chat repetitive bubbles about kidnap and assassination all day long for no other reason than to stop me thinking freely. I don’t know what danger my thoughts pose to anybody, but these complete rags of filth seem allergic to them. Fancy heterodyning (frequency cloning) your brain to another whose you are allergic to. Their fretting is because I didn’t commit suicide like they expected. Instead I rose up and starting spreading the gospel over their lies, abuse and slander. Their tongues are like sharpened vipers, whereas mine is holy like a prophet of the Most High. That’s the difference between myself and them, crucially, outnumbered and surrounded and stalked and tracked and harassed 24/7 or not outnumbered and surrounded and stalked and tracked and harassed 24/7.

I am a Child Of The Lord. They drink blood underneath my feet. Ends.

Pura Vida allows me to be brave and write like this instead of begging the mental health authorities to save me from them, which they don’t, because they conspire with them. I hate to write negatively, I had other topics outlined for today, involving angels and princesses, but these sick puppies need to hear the truth whether they can stomach it or not. Lately, the mind control being used against me is gunning for forced suicide. The never-ending pettiness of it sometimes has me lining up a razor blade, I’ll be honest about it. Then I snap out of it and realise what is happening:

Basically, it’s just an outsider crime group of lonely sad gits with no morals who find it impossible to live with themselves talking claptrap to me over and over via illegal subliminal methods. I tell myself that this is deserving of pity, not suicide.

I had nothing several months ago, apart from screams of agony ringing in my ear canals. My fatherhood and vocation and mission were in the gutter. I was wandering around city blocks in the middle of the night, like a figment of my own imagination in some bizarre tetris-shaped dreamscape. All the hotels had their lights off, as if Corona virus had wiped out the masses. I returned from my pilgrimage full of wonder and hope yet critically deflated and downtrodden. The following weeks were pain.

Then God stepped in, and now I presently face the day without fear or depression. I have never been attacked so forcefully as I am today. It feels like every man and his dog are waiting around the next corner with a booby trap. That’s without ancient supernatural forces getting involved, levelling me with spells and curses. Not to mention my own flaws, failures and faults in the guise of messy addictions related to the pleasures of the flesh. Then you have the rigours of everyday life. All in all, I’m up against it, and times are hard. This is half of the reason why I relapse. I just give up and press the (FIB) f**k it button. Or reach for a lager and a fag. While you’re at it, pass me a kebab. Then it’s chasing a bag or two of Charlie, and getting wiped out by a sexy woman. Who happens to have me on her murder list. Fun while it’s occurring, but impossible to describe for the next few days. I always drag myself back out of the scummy puddle somehow, eventually, I’m like a Phoenix from the Ashes every time, but there’s never any guarantee. Things are getting worse, man, before they’re getting better. How many chances does a sinner deserve? Let’s ask Christ, who I reside in. Only messing, he’s busy hand-washing the net curtains from the utility room. We’ll ask him when he’s finished. If he ever gets the job done. Ta’ra for now.