Ambivalence

Ambivalence is wrestling with angels, demons, God, and the devil all at the same time—your soul the battlefield, your ribs the scaffolding of war cries and whispers.

It is the trembling hand that reaches for light while clutching shadows with equal devotion.

In one breath, you pray for deliverance; in the next, you sabotage your own escape route with sacred precision.

There is no peace in the middle ground—only smoke rising from both altars, only wounds that will not choose sides.

Ambivalence is the ache of dual loyalties, the tear in the veil where heaven and hell leak through your pores.

It is hearing the voice of God in the same silence that mocks you with absence.

The angel says rise, the demon says rest, and you are paralyzed in the threshold between becoming and undoing.

You bleed belief and doubt in the same heartbeat, your pulse chanting both psalm and curse.

This is not indecision—it is a holy fracture, a sacred dissonance carved into the marrow.

The devil does not need to win when confusion is enough to keep you circling your own grave.

God does not shout above the chaos; He waits for you in the stillness that terrifies you most.

You do not know if you are being tempted or tested, saved or destroyed, and some days you don't care.

There is a fierce honesty in ambivalence—it confesses what certainty conceals.

You are both Judas and John, both betrayer and beloved, both flame and ash.  The war within you is ancient, older than names, louder than logic, deeper than faith.