I'm not starting like some holy man story, I'm just me. 1% of me maybe good, pure, silent… but 99% is messy, unpure, dirty with thoughts, mistakes, wrong choices. People see me and judge, but they don't feel what's inside my head. Life never gave me soft pillow, it gave me stones, sharp and cold. I walk anyway. I think, maybe this is my way—my story. I'm not angel, not devil, just a mix. Broken but alive. This is how my journey starts.
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I wake up every day thinking, why I'm here. Not in a big way, just small things—like what I'm doing, where I'm heading. People around me chase money, power, fame, but inside they also broken, just hiding it better. Me? I don't hide much. My life is open, raw, no mask. That's why many don't understand me. They say I'm lost, I say I'm searching. Searching for meaning in this 1% pure I still carry, that little spark. It's weak, but it's alive. Maybe that's enough reason to write my story, even if it's unpure.
Sometimes I laugh at myself. I call my life unpure, but maybe that's the only real part of me. Everyone wants to act holy, clean, but behind the curtain they got same dirt. I don't fake it. I accept it. My mistakes, my sins, my wild thoughts—they shape me. It's like a tiny flame, refusing to die. It keeps whispering, "Don't give up." That's why I write. Maybe someone like me will read this and feel less alone. I'm not here to preach, I'm here to bleed words,
I remember times when silence was louder than any scream. Nights where I lay awake, thinking of all the wrong turns I took. I don't regret much, but I carry weight. Heavy, unspoken weight. People see me smiling and think I'm fine, but inside I'm fighting storms —you carry battles that never show outside. Still, that 1% gives me strange hope. It tells me there's something more, something waiting. Maybe redemption, maybe peace. Or maybe just another fight. Either way, I keep walking.
People always ask, "Why you like this?" I don't have simple answer. Life made me like this. Messy, broken, loud thoughts, dark laughs. I embrace it. Sometimes I hurt others, not because I want, but because I'm lost in my own chaos. That 1% keeps me from being completely destroyed. It's like a compass in a storm, tiny but pointing somewhere. I write these words not for praise, not for pity, but so someone sees that unpure life can still move, still dream, still survive.
I watch people live like nothing matters, smiling, scrolling, pretending. I notice the lies, the fake faces, the hidden pain. It's exhausting, but it teaches me. Every mistake I made, every bad choice, every dark thought—it's all lesson. And that 1% pure? It's stubborn, it won't let me sink completely. Some nights I cry, some nights I laugh at the absurdity of life. Either way, I keep moving. I'm writing this because someday someone like me might need proof—they're not alone.
I've learned people fear honesty more than lies. Tell the truth, they run. Lie, they smile. I live in that truth. My life was messy, wild, loud, but it's real. I've hurt, I've lost, I've broken rules I shouldn't, and still, I survive. That little 1% pure keeps me human, keeps me from losing everything. Some days I think about giving up, letting the chaos win, but then I remember: even in dirt, a seed can grow. Even in me, something pure can bloom.
I hate how people judge without knowing, They don't see the nights I fight with myself, the thoughts I swallow to survive, the storms I walk through alone. That 1% pure whispers, "Keep going, don't let them win." Sometimes it's enough, sometimes not. I don't pretend to be better. I'm not teaching, not preaching, just telling. Life gave me dirt, mistakes, pain—and a tiny spark. That spark is my only guide, my only hope. And even if it fades, I'll keep walking.
I've seen friends leave, people betray, and dreams crumble. That's life—99% full of chaos. I could hate it, curse it, but I don't. I accept it. The 1% inside me whispers sometimes, "This is growth, not failure." I write these words to remember, to survive, to breathe through the mess. I'm not perfect, never will be. But being unpure doesn't mean I'm empty. I feel, I learn, I rise again. Every scar, every mistake, every dirty thought—they're all part of me. And maybe, just maybe, that's enough to keep moving forward.
And so I keep walking, carrying my 99% unpure like armor, letting the 1% pure guide my steps. Life isn't clean, life isn't fair, but it's mine. I won't apologize for my darkness, my mistakes, my chaos. I embrace it because it made me who I am. Every wrong turn, every loud thought, every failure—they're all chapters in me. I write to survive, to speak, to leave a mark. Maybe someone reads this and feels less alone. Maybe they see that being mostly unpure doesn't mean you can't still live, dream, fight, and rise.
I used to hate everything My parents, my brothers, my home — I didn't see them as love; I saw them as weight. I never respected them. I called myself free, but I was only running. I thought family was boring, rules were chains, and love was weak. I was a fool son — like the ones written about in Proverbs, blinded by my own pride. I didn't understand life, didn't even try.
But time has a way of teaching what words can't. Slowly, God started tutoring me through pain, emptiness, and small whispers. One by one, my illusions fell and in that silence, I began to see. The Bible calls it "folly" when a man rejects wisdom, and that was me. But even a fool can be reached. God reached me.
Now I see my parents differently. I see my brothers differently. I was blind to the hands that fed me, the eyes that watched over me when no one else did. My heart changed. That 1% pure inside me grew. Now I don't want to waste the days God gives me. Love isn't weak — it's strong. Family isn't a cage — it's a shelter.
This is where my story starts. Not in perfection, not in purity, but in a boy who was lost and found.
I remember nights when I lay awake, thinking I didn't belong anywhere. My home felt like a trap, my parents like strangers, my brothers like annoying shadows I had no patience for. I wanted nothing but the freedom to disappear from responsibility. I laughed at family dinners, ignored their advice, and called their care "nonsense." I was living in noise and chaos, feeding my ego and ignoring the truth. I was a fool, and I didn't even know it.
I chased temporary highs — a joke, a party, a flirt, a night out — thinking life was about fun, not love, not lessons, not growth. I thought I understood the world, but really, I was blind. My heart was empty, my mind restless, my soul wandering in darkness. I didn't care who I hurt, didn't care about respect, didn't care about life itself. I was reckless, impatient, angry at rules I couldn't yet understand.
And then, slowly, God began to tutor me with life itself. He made me feel emptiness I couldn't fill with friends or fun. He showed me loneliness I couldn't escape. He whispered through small signs, through silence, through the gnawing feeling that I was missing something real. Slowly, my mind opened. I began to see the folly of my ways, the waste of my time, the wrong in my rebellion.
I started noticing my parents' patience, my brothers' small gestures of care, the warmth in the home I had scorned. That 1% pure inside me grew like a spark in the dark. I felt regret, yes, but also hope. I realized love wasn't weak. Family wasn't a cage. Life wasn't about running — it was about seeing, feeling, and being present. Now, when I have time,I want to enjoy, the small moments that I once ignored.
I was a fool, blind and ungrateful. But even a fool can change. Even a dark heart can learn to love.
I used to think I was free, but I was only running — running from responsibility, from truth, from the people who loved me most. My parents' words were noise. My brothers' presence was irritation. I wanted nothing but friends, laughter, a girl attention, chasing temporary highs that vanished by sunrise. I ignored all warnings, all guidance, all love. I was reckless, selfish, and blind. I thought life was about pleasure, fun, and ego. But it was emptiness I was chasing. Deep inside, I felt a hollow.
I hated the idea of being taught, of listening to anyone older or wiser. I laughed at the Bible stories about foolish sons, about prodigals, about people who didn't understand life until God touched them. I thought, That's not me. But God was already touching me. Slowly. Quietly. Not in a sermon, not in words I could hear but In silence. In empty rooms. In nights where I felt abandoned, even by my friends. In moments when the thrills faded and I was left with myself. That's when the 1% pure inside me began to stir.
I remember one night, walking alone under streetlights, thinking about all the mistakes I had made. Every insult to my parents, every ignored lesson from my brothers, every wasted hour — it all flashed like a storm in my mind. For the first time, I felt fear. Not fear of punishment, not fear of people, but fear of wasting life completely. And then, a whisper inside me, so small I almost ignored it: "There is more. You are not lost." That was the 1% pure speaking — God's spark in me, showing me that even my darkness wasn't the end.
From that moment, I started noticing things I never saw before. My parents' patience, my mother's silent prayer, my father's quiet sacrifices prayers for me, my brothers' small gestures that once annoyed me. I realized I had judged love as weak because I had never understood it. And suddenly, the Bible verses about folly made sense. I was that foolish son, blind and ungrateful, but God had not abandoned me. The verse that once seemed distant, the one that said He can turn even the evil heart toward Himself, suddenly became real, and slowly, I changed.
Nature became my new teacher — quiet mornings, the sound of birds, the wind in the trees — all reminders of God's presence and patience. I began to see life differently. No more chasing meaningless thrills. No more ignoring love. No more wasting my time on what didn't matter.
Even my thoughts changed. The anger, the rebellion, the hatred toward those who were supposed to be closest to me — it didn't vanish instantly, but I began to control it. I replaced it with patience, with understanding, with prayer. The 1% pure inside me became a guiding flame. Each day, I fed it, nourished it, let it grow stronger. And slowly, the 99% unpure didn't disappear, but it learned to listen. My darkness didn't control me anymore. God's light did.
Now, I love my family deeply. I want to spend every moment I can with them. I want to enjoy the small things — a quiet meal, a walk outside, laughter over nothing, peace in the presence of those who truly care. I've realized that God doesn't only save from sin; He saves from blindness. He doesn't just forgive mistakes; He teaches us how to see the value of life, love, and family. That 1% pure wasn't wasted — it was the seed. And God nurtured it into something real, something that changed me.
I don't claim to be perfect. I still have moments of selfishness, moments when I forget, moments when I feel the old darkness pressing against me. But now I have faith, and that makes all the difference. The Bible is not just words on a page. It's life, it's proof, it's guidance. I am living evidence that even a fool son, a boy who hated his family and chased nothing but noise, can change when he believes.
This is the start of my story — not just about mistakes, but about transformation. Not about darkness, but about finding light inside it. Not about folly, but about learning wisdom through God's grace. And every day, I remind myself: that 1% pure is not small, not weak, not wasted. It is the beginning of everything.
I was once a fool son. Truly. Not the kind of fool people laugh at, but the kind who ignores everything that matters until life hits hard. I think it all started when I didn't have a phone. No distraction, no scrolling, no instant escape. That's when things became raw, real. I wasn't perfect — far from it — but something inside me started shifting, slowly.
Without a phone, I had time, and I spent it in ways I didn't even realize were shaping me. Daytime, I would workout, push my body to limits, sweat, hurt, and build myself physically. After shower, I'd eat my meal, nothing fancy, just enough to fuel me. Then I'd go out with friends, chasing highs, the thrill of youth — smoking, roaming, laughing, doing what I thought I wanted. It was reckless, yes, but it felt alive.
Even in my chaos, I had this one thing: the Bible. Proverbs. I didn't read it like a perfect Christian — slow, judgmental, or holy. I read it like a secret, like someone was whispering wisdom I didn't yet understand. Slowly, slowly, it sank in. I started learning — about life, about choices, about fools and wisdom. I didn't realize it then, but those quiet hours of reading, coupled with my workouts and struggles, were building me in ways nothing else could. Physically, mentally, spiritually.
That time — looking back — I call it golden. Not because it was perfect, but because it was raw, real, and formative. I was still foolish, still chasing friends, girls, highs, and noise. I still ignored my family sometimes, still walked my own reckless path. But the foundation was being laid. That 1% pure in me, the part that would later guide me to love my family and life, was awake, whispering, waiting.
I look back at those days and see the paradox. I was dark and foolish, but also building. I was lost, yet learning. I hated family rules, yet discovered discipline through workouts. I chased pleasure, yet discovered peace in quiet moments with the Bible. I didn't respect my parents fully, didn't understand their wisdom, didn't feel the value of their love — but I was beginning, unconsciously, to shape a better version of myself.
The irony is clear now. Life gave me limits — no phone, no instant escape — and that limitation became freedom. I found a rhythm: body, mind, spirit. I learned to push my body, respect it, challenge it. I learned to read Proverbs, slowly absorbing wisdom, noticing patterns of fools and wise men. I learned that highs fade, friendships change, noise is empty, but some truths endure. That golden time taught me that even a fool son can start building, even in darkness.
I was still human. I still made mistakes. I still ignored my parents sometimes, still felt impatient with brothers, still laughed at responsibility. But something changed. The 1% pure inside me started growing, like a small flame in a dark room. It whispered: "There is more. Don't waste your life. See the truth. Build. Love. Grow."
And so, slowly, I began to change. Not perfectly, not instantly, but steadily. I learned to respect my family more, to see their love even when I didn't deserve it. I learned that life isn't just about running with friends or chasing thrills. It's about building yourself, learning wisdom, loving those who matter, and seeing beauty in small, quiet moments. That golden time — strange, chaotic, foolish, yet structured — became the beginning of a man who would learn to love deeply, including his family, including life itself.
Even now, I'm not perfect. I still have moments where old habits whisper in my mind, where impatience or selfishness creeps in. But the way God taught me, the way He guided me through my darkness, has made me a better version of myself. I now care for my family — their happiness, their success, their growth. I want my parents to see their sacrifices bear fruit. I want my friends to grow, too, in ways I once ignored.
Sometimes, thoughts strike me like lightning — flashes of ideas, of visions, of plans .I see the future in small sparks, the kind only God can show. I don't always understand it, but I trust it. I've realized God never leaves us, not even in disaster, not even when we're at our lowest, not even when we stumble in our own mistakes. Every mistake, every disaster, every failure has been a lesson in disguise. Pain became teacher. Chaos became guidance. Darkness became light, if I looked for it.
I used to see failure as punishment, loss as defeat, and mistakes as shame. Now I see them as signals, as the quiet voice of God teaching me, molding me. Each disaster, each hard time, forced me to see what mattered. My family, my faith, my inner growth. That 1% pure I carried, tiny as it was, became the channel through which God reached me. He never abandoned me. Even when I was foolish, even when I hated rules, even when I chased temporary highs — He was there.
And now, I want to live differently. I want to build not just for myself, but for everyone I love. I want to create a life where my family is proud, where my friends can rely on me, where my actions carry meaning. I want to give back what I once ignored. I want to enjoy simple things — peace, nature, quiet moments with the people I love. I want to be present. I want to grow not only in wealth or status but in character, in love, in faith.
God's lessons are slow, sometimes harsh, but never wasted. I may never be perfect, but I am learning to be better. I am learning to see life as He wants me to see it — with eyes that recognize truth, love, and purpose. That 1% pure isn't just a spark; it's a life preserver, guiding me through my storms, reminding me I am never alone. And now, I embrace it fully, letting it lead me toward the best version of myself, day by day.