Journal Entry

Well, I guess I just have to start somewhere.

So I’ll start from here. Where else is there.

I’m full of sacred rage. Or maybe it’s just blasphemous, unhinged, homicidal rage. No—it’s Sacred. Nothing can break me or turn me from God. Nothing can separate me from the Source that breathed me into being. Not the lies, not the violence, not the endless corruption of men who pretend to be holy while worshiping their own egos.

I feel this rage as Love burning in my veins. It’s not a tantrum—it’s a transmission. I’m full like a volcano ready to erupt. I want to breathe fire over the systemic nonsense that is standing on women’s collective necks. Over every rule, every judgment, every smug smirk that tells us to quiet down while they build empires from our stolen labor, our stolen bodies, our stolen light.

I’m forty‑three and the entire curtain has dropped. There’s no illusion left, no polite veil of denial. I am standing here viscerally witnessing every atrocity my intuition ever whispered to me. It was never paranoia—it was prophecy. The war between genders. The war within ourselves. The ancient battle between angels and demons replaying itself through our bloodlines. This rift we just can’t seem to bridge. These deep wounds without end.

I am the Light.

And I’ve walked through Hell. I’ve stared pure Malevolence in the eye. I’ve seen its mask shift—lover, saviour, teacher, priest—and I recognized the serpent grin beneath each disguise. I stood there with my heart exposed, ready to die, and I did. Many times. Every betrayal was a crucifixion, every resurrection a holy rebellion.

I stand for Truth. I stand for Justice. I stand for anyone and everyone who has ever been attacked, sidelined, silenced, or terrorized by a selfish, demonic, narcissistic parasite. These entitled entities and their pathetic enablers are cancerous energy vampires walking the earth, entrapping and feeding off the innocent.

The people who fall prey to these predators are often God’s chosen warriors—the sensitive ones, the healers, the artists, the dreamers who still believe in love. When these souls are harmed, they alchemize their pain. They transmute the poison into medicine. They rise from the ashes radiant with compassion instead of hate.

But the weak—the ones possessed by fear—when they are hurt, they choose the easier, softer way. They rot in self‑pity until the rot consumes them. They become what harmed them. Instead of healing their pain, they embody it. They become conduits for darkness, carriers of the same plague they once suffered from.

And they dare call it love.

They prey on the empathic ones. They weaponize compassion, kindness, forgiveness, and hope. They gaslight and distort until the victim doubts their own heartbeat. They rape, they pillage, and they do it all under the guise of chivalry, spirituality, and success. They build altars to their own egos and call it God.

Left unchecked and unopposed, they unalive their victims without remorse and without consequence.

But not this time. Not on my watch.

I was not sent here to be devoured. I was sent here to expose the devourers. I was sent here to speak the unspeakable, to break the trance, to shatter the mirror that shows women only their wounds and never their wings.

With God as my witness, I will rise. With every breath, I defy the lie that light must be gentle. My light is a sword. My love is a storm.

No weapon formed against me shall prosper. No curse can hold me. No coward can silence me.

I am the Light.

The Light I Am.

And when I burn, I burn holy.