01:11.

Last evening's speaker at OCF delivered a sermon that was probably the most intelligent and biblical one I have heard for a good while. There were inferences, but theologically grounded mostly, and time was extended to explain part of the women-should-not-talk scripture in the Epistles. I appreciate that. I sincerely do. Again, it feels like it has been a good while since I heard from the pulpit affirmation for my gender, specifically tackling supposed scriptural anormalities like those. I learnt the stuff he explained through my readings a good while ago, probably four years or maybe three when I had to tackle my feminity with my faith and the church but so many still need to hear and be reminded.

So many things to learn.

So many things to analyse and wrap my head around.

Reminders spring at me, left, right and center, of how I need to study my faith. How I need to understand theological workings and innings. How I need to be able to use the (perhaps) vanity of words to define realities my spirit already recognise.

And even as these reminders, like thistles and thorns thrown at my heart, abound, a part of me seem to be resting, finding peace in the idea of returning to journalism. A certain joy and quiet gladness at the thought of spending hours and days and months and some years just telling stories, telling people's stories.

And yet, to add a third leg to this diagram, a browse through a publication just now opened up the door to another angle. It was not this sole publication that tripped me down a non-angry almost-rant. How vain these words, how useless are words, how utter wasteful, stupid and nonsensical it should be that so much of what is written never really makes sense. All but mere vanity, words written to fill pages just for that sake, words empty, containing only puffed attempts to illuminate and gather, communicate and encapsulate. Yet so heartless because they are but some exercise.

People talk too much. In the same way, they write too much sometimes (I am not excused). And like how a babble falls to the ground like slime or dust and takes up way too much space and captures some bit of attention which you are not willing to spend, empty words occupies too much even in their inherently meaningless existence.

Clutter. That's what these are.

And like all deconstructivist theories, the theories themselves are as full of holes as the ideologies they debunk. Or seek to. I write in some derision about writing. Isn't that ironic?

Ah. Shut up. I am going to bed.

Sleep well.