Into The Wilderness (Pt.1-2)
Written on 12th May 2025
At that time, I already knew that I would leave that church soon, but I was very at lost.
Part.1
Lord, I’ve only just begun, and already I’m so discouraged.
That fall after watching short videos was only the beginning—turns out I’m still so attached to the lights and noise of this world.
I watched tons of cooking videos, as if my life’s ambition were to be a housewife.
Yes, I really do want to be a housewife.
But in fact, I have no interest in food.
In that moment, I was merely escaping, pretending I could still enjoy grocery lists and kitchen smoke—though I’ve never truly enjoyed any of it.
After putting down my phone, I felt I could throw myself into the wilderness at any time. With a kind of discipline unimaginable to most—diving into the works of the saints in history, writing daily, making videos, putting out thoughts.
This isn’t some delusional overestimation of my willpower, because I’ve done this before: immersing myself with undivided focus—only to be misunderstood as being ambitious. Even I misunderstood myself.
But this time, there will be no more misunderstanding.
Sometimes, for example when I read Kierkegaard and can’t help clapping with admiration—realizing what kind of words and thoughts are truly worth following—I feel all my previous hesitations were just me losing my mind.
And yet, just one night of sleep, and this path I’ve walked since childhood turns into a dark, winding trail. I falter.
I show my writings to real, living people, then imagine them calling me crazy, and I stomp my foot in anger, turning the refusal into fuel.
But I also long for genuine encouragement—someone to tell me I truly have worth. Even though I know there isn’t a single person around me who can see that far. At most, they’re just being nice.
Still, the most predictable—and most real—outcome is this: everything vanishes without a trace, and I go on performing a one-woman monologue with no audience.
If you’re watching, if the angels are watching, could one of you cough, just so I know?
Part.2
I don’t think I’ve ever bled this much during my period—half a box of tampons used up in just three days. And even now, as I write this, it’s the eighth day, and the bleeding has only just barely stopped. At least I won’t need to go to the hospital.
Every morning I wake up imagining the same thing: I will stand up, pick up my pen, carry the light, resist the darkness, and live out my calling.
But in reality, I always fall right back asleep, then struggle through endless dreams, groaning in that half-conscious, half-asleep state.
There is no turning back, but I cannot break through either—only sink into the void of unconsciousness.
As a child, I used to imagine myself as a knight who set truth free from a dark castle, running barefoot around my room while listening to When a Knight Won His Spurs. Even in the years when I had forgotten God, I still listened to that song, still imagined myself as a knight of faith.
And now, I realize—I’m just a little woman.
As a woman, my only consolation is that now and then, I can tilt my head up, look at you with the eyes of a little girl, and softly beg:
“I’ve just turned 31. Will I die young like Pascal?”
If I start now—burning my soul for truth the way he did, giving up my longing for a husband and a home—would you have mercy on me too, and let me die young like him, so I don’t have to struggle in this world for much longer?
Yes, this is me being a little girl—this is me acting spoiled.
Just like Jeremiah said, “You deceived me, Lord, and I was deceived”—that was him being spoiled. Just like Jesus said on the cross, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”—that was also being spoiled.
My soul surrenders. I can forsake everything for you—infinitely, utterly.
I have an Isaac—one I’ve never held in my hands, but buried deep in my heart: to be wholly embraced, to be loved, to have a home.
I lift it up, trembling—not like last year when I tried to bargain. This time I say:
“Lord, this too, I can give to you.”
But right after that act of surrender, I felt an overwhelming longing—for someone to hold me so close, I’d melt into his flesh and bone.
I touched myself, as if performing a farewell ritual—without a trace of shame.
As my body trembled with desire, was I also imagining the embrace of God?
In that moment, I suddenly understood: orgasm is the soul’s desperate craving for love being discharged through the body. It isn’t love—it’s a release.
God designed it this way, out of mercy. It allows just a flicker of light to pass through our dim flesh when we can’t bear the full radiance of His glory.
Isn’t that, too, a small kind of incarnation?