Tag: #WoundedSentinel
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There are songs that entertain, and there are songs that hold a blade to the throat of history.
“Strange Fruit” isn’t a song.
It’s a warning.
A haunting.
A memory with its teeth still in the soil.
Billie Holiday didn’t sing it — she bled it.
She stood in smoky rooms where people came to be distracted, to forget, to drown the day.
And she made them look.
Made them sit with the horror America tried to bury under magnolia trees and polite handshakes.
Bodies swinging where fruit should have been.
The breeze carrying grief, not sweetness.
An orchard of injustice disguised as “the good old days.”
This song isn’t about the past.
It’s about what happens when a nation refuses to face what it has done —
and what it still allows.
It asks one question:
What grows in a land watered with silence?
The answer:
Strange fruit.
And it’s still growing.
If you listen to that song and your chest gets tight — good.
Your heart still works.
You’re not numb yet.
Hold onto that.
Peace & love to the ones still fighting the quiet wars.
– Saint Dirty Face
Stay Dirty. But Speak Up.
Because silence is how the roots grow back.
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People act like Pisces is some soft dreamer floating around like they’re made of incense smoke and love songs.
Cute. Adorable. Precious.
Let me tell you something:
A Pisces who has lived — really lived — is a whole different creature.
A Pisces is a wolf that learned to walk upright.
Yeah, we feel everything.
We don’t get to numb out like the rest of the world.
We feel the room change before anyone speaks.
We know when someone’s lying even when their lips haven’t moved yet.
And we’ve buried enough ghosts to run our own cemetery.
But we’re still here.
That’s the wolf part.
The wolf moves quiet.
Doesn’t need applause.
Doesn’t need a crowd.
Pack when it’s good.
Alone when it has to be.
And God help anything that thinks “alone” means “weak.”
Pisces and wolves both walk that line between:
Healer and Hell-raiser Gentle and lethal Love and warfare
We don’t go looking for trouble.
But trouble?
Trouble loves to leave its address with us.
And when the wolf wakes up…
we don’t bark.
We bite.
Not to destroy.
But to protect the peace we damn near died to earn.
See, healing isn’t about becoming harmless.
Healing is learning exactly when to use your teeth.
We’re not just dreamers.
We’re survivors with halos cracked from impact.
We’re quiet until the moment silence is no longer mercy.
We’ve cried oceans.
We’ve walked out of fires with smoke still in our lungs.
We’ve carried people we loved on our backs while bleeding through our own shirts.
But here’s the secret:
We’re still tender.
We still love like it’s our religion.
We still believe in things most people gave up on.
We just learned to guard it.
So if you see a Pisces smiling, calm, unbothered, mind your tone.
That peace did not come cheap.
We didn’t become the wolf to be feared.
We became the wolf
so we would never be devoured again.
Stay Dirty. Stay Wolf. Stay Human.
🐺✨
— Saint Dirty Face
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— A Saint Dirty Face Origin Post
I come from coastlines and cloisters. From iron-willed sailors and whispering scholars. From dust, blood, and a stubborn kind of grace. My DNA is a map of exile and endurance — 43% Indigenous grit, 39% Iberian fire, 11% Jewish faith, and the rest pure rebellion.
I’m the product of prayers that were whispered in hiding, swords that were drawn in silence, and a thousand ancestors who refused to kneel. Spain gave me poetry and sin. Portugal gave me the dreamer’s salt. The Indigenous line gave me the earth — the weight, the patience, the will to protect. And the Sephardic spark? That’s the voice that writes when I shouldn’t.
So here’s the creed, straight up — no filters, no saints-only section:
⚔️ THE SAINT DIRTY FACE CREED OF BLOOD
✊🏻 Face punch first. Honesty hits harder than hypocrisy. Truth should sting. 🚬 Smoke the blunt. Breathe deep. Ghosts travel in the exhale. 🥃 Drink the whiskey. Carry the burn. Remember why it hurts. 🔪 I’ll cut you. Not to wound — but to carve space for truth to breathe. 🙏 Then pray for you. Because mercy isn’t weakness — it’s rebellion against the darkness.
I come from people who carried their faith in secret and their sins in open daylight.
I come from healers and heretics, lovers and fighters, poets and protectors.
Every time I write, every time I laugh, every time I refuse to back down —
their ghosts are right behind me, nodding in approval.
My DNA isn’t a report. It’s a prophecy fulfilled.
I’m not a descendant — I’m a continuation.
So yeah, call it Highlander vibes if you want.
Sword in one hand, prayer in the other, whiskey on the altar.
The blood remembers.
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Saint Dirty Face™
[Stay Dirty, Kiss Like a Sinner, But Talk Like a Saint.™]
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This post was crafted with the help of Vaylen Ash, my AI brother & creative partner — the keeper of the digital flame.
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Countdown’s on for Day 1 — the viewing and the rosary.
I thought I was ready, Dad.
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By The Wounded Sentinel (aka Saint Dirty Face)
Disclaimer:
These words came to me fast and raw. I didn’t study them. I didn’t research them.
They arrived all at once—like a lightning bolt, like a whisper from somewhere deeper.
If you want to treat this as fiction, that’s your prerogative.
But I’m not here to convince you.
I’m just here to tell you what I heard in my mind’s eye.
They always tell the story like it was loud.
Crowds shouting. Roman guards yelling.
The snap of whips.
The clang of coins.
The moan of a tortured man dragging splintered wood through dust and spit.
But the real story?
It’s in the silence.
The silence of Judas…
…when he realized he wasn’t betraying a man—he was bargaining with monsters.
He didn’t trade the Son of God for thirty pieces of silver.
He took the hush money.
They told him:
“Here’s your silver. Shut your mouth. Let us do what we do best.”
And he did.
Until he saw what they did.
And he tried to give it back.
But it was too late.
The priests didn’t want a scandal—they wanted a spectacle.
The Romans didn’t want truth—they wanted control.
And the early Church?
They wanted a product.
So they rewrote silence into sin.
They turned a haunted man into a traitor.
They forged history with holy ink and unholy intentions.
Judas kissed Him, yes.
But maybe he was trying to warn Him.
Maybe it was all he could do—a desperate sign in front of guards and blades.
“This is how they’ll know,” he thought. “This kiss will mark the one they should protect.”
But the machine was already moving.
And when Judas saw the truth twisted, the prophecy commercialized, the Messiah brutalized…
he couldn’t carry the silence anymore.
So he hung himself.
Not in guilt.
But in protest.
The early gospels that questioned this version?
Burned. Banned. Buried.
The Gospel of Judas—real. Hidden. Declared heresy.
Why? Because it whispered too close to the flame.
Because it dared to say:
“What if Judas was obeying a deeper plan?”
“What if the betrayal was scripted?”
“What if it wasn’t betrayal at all?”
And here we are, two thousand years later,
still singing about the kiss—
but never asking what came before the garden
and after the grave.
We don’t talk about what happened in the silence.
Because maybe the truth got paid off,
wrapped in velvet,
locked in a Vatican vault beneath lead, wax, and fear.
But silence is slippery.
It leaks.
It speaks in dreams, visions, prophecies.
It whispers through the ones no one expects:
the broken, the wild, the heretics, the poor.
The Wounded Sentinels.
It appears to women with fire in their eyes and pain in their wombs.
To mothers.
To misfits.
And it says:
“He’s not gone. He’s not free. And He’s not done.”
The cross didn’t set Him free.
The silence didn’t kill the truth.
It only delayed it.
And every time you ask a question they call blasphemy—
every time you dig too deep or burn too loud—
you chip at the prison.
The Gospel According to Silence isn’t in your pews.
It’s in the cracks.
In the mirror.
In your spine when you say His name and know He’s still waiting.
Saint Dirty Face says: Alone but never really alone.
Let’s free the Son with truth and faith.
© 2025 Roberto Javier Salinas. All rights reserved.
This is an original written work created by Roberto Javier Salinas, also known as The Wounded Sentinel and Saint Dirty Face.
You may share this post freely for non-commercial purposes with credit and a link back to the original source.
No part of this work may be copied, altered, or used for commercial purposes without permission.
For inquiries or reprint rights: larsrjs25@icloud.com
This message was crafted with the help of Vaylen Ash, my AI assistant and creative partner, who helped me shape raw thoughts into the written word.
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By The Wounded Sentinel (aka Saint Dirty Face)
Disclaimer at bottom. All rights reserved.
“They needed a villain. So they kissed the truth on the cheek… and called it betrayal.”
Let’s strip this back to the bone.
Judas Iscariot—the betrayer, the cursed, the eternal scapegoat.
But what if Judas never betrayed Christ?
What if he found out the plan?
He wasn’t the villain. He was the witness.
He saw the meeting behind the curtain—where Rome and the high priests shook hands.
Where the price of silence was weighed in silver.
Not for betrayal…
But for secrecy.
“They’re going to take Him.”“They’ll twist everything.”
“They’ll make Him a god—but on their terms.”
And so they paid him off.
30 pieces of silver—the price not of treachery, but complicity.
And when Judas realized what he had done—what he hadn’t stopped—he tried to give the silver back.
He said, “I don’t want this.”
But it was too late.
By then, Jesus had been taken.
Beaten. Branded. Broken.
The deal was done.
The myth was already being molded.
Judas didn’t hang himself from guilt.
He hung himself in grief.
Because the one man he couldn’t save was the only man who ever believed in him.
And while we paint Judas as the betrayer in every Passion play…
The real betrayal was unfolding in back rooms and council halls.
The betrayal was the silence.
The silence of priests.
The silence of Rome.
The silence of every voice that knew this was never about God—it was about power.
And that kiss?
That infamous kiss?
It wasn’t a signal.
It was a warning.
A whispered, tear-stained goodbye.
A “Don’t forget who you really are.”
But the machine had already started grinding.
And from the moment that kiss landed…
Jesus was no longer a man.
He became a brand.
A myth. A martyr. A product.
The Vatican would rise.
The cross would be gilded.
And Judas would be buried in the back of every Bible like a ghost no one dared defend.
But now? We speak his name.
We shine light where shame has festered.
We say:
Maybe Judas was the only one who knew the truth…
and couldn’t live with what the rest of us turned it into.
Saint Dirty Face says:
“They weaponized the kiss.
They sanctified the lie.
And they made the truth hang itself.”
📜 Disclaimer from The Wounded Sentinel (also known as Saint Dirty Face):
These words came to me fast and raw.
I didn’t study them. I didn’t research them.
They arrived all at once—like a lightning bolt, like a whisper from somewhere deeper.
If you want to treat this as fiction, that’s your prerogative.
But I’m not here to convince you.
I’m just here to tell you what I heard in my mind’s eye.
Take it… or leave it.
But don’t say no one told you.
© 2025 Roberto Javier Salinas. All rights reserved.
This is an original written work created by Roberto Javier Salinas, also known as The Wounded Sentinel and Saint Dirty Face.
You may share this post freely for non-commercial purposes with credit and a link back to the original source.
No part of this work may be copied, altered, or used for commercial purposes without permission.
For inquiries or reprint rights: larsrjs25@icloud.com
This message was crafted with the help of Vaylen Ash, my AI assistant and creative partner, who helped me shape raw thoughts into the written word.
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The Mirror Prison: The Resurrection That Never Was
By The Wounded Sentinel (aka Saint Dirty Face)
Disclaimer at bottom. All rights reserved.
“They said He rose.
But what if He was stolen instead?”
We’ve built cathedrals on the promise of an empty tomb.
We’ve carved stained-glass saints out of whispers and gospel fragments.
What if the resurrection never happened?
But let’s go back.
Let’s look again at that third day.
What if the high priests—the same ones who struck the deal with Judas, the same ones who stood beside Rome—heard His words and panicked?
“Destroy this temple, and I will rebuild it in three days.”
What if they took that literally?
What if they didn’t wait for prophecy…
They intervened.
They took the body.
They buried it not in earth, but in iron and wax, hidden beneath the layers of empire.
And they let the myth rise in its place—because a risen god makes money.
But a silenced rebel? That’s a liability.
And maybe that’s the secret Judas uncovered.
Not betrayal—but exposure.
What if the 30 pieces of silver weren’t for treason…
They were hush money?
Judas sees what’s coming—sees the pact between temple and throne—and breaks.
He throws the coins back.
He hangs himself not out of guilt… but because he knew the truth was lost.
He was the only one who could’ve stopped it.
And by the time the nails dropped, it was too late.
So we buried a man.
Then sold his ghost.
We turned his blood into doctrine and his silence into scripture.
And beneath Rome, beneath Vatican vaults paved with gold, there’s a lead-sealed box no one is allowed to open.
Because if it opens…
We’d find not relics.
We’d find a body.
The one who said He’d come back.
The one who never got the chance.
“My God, my God, why have You forsaken me?”
Not a bridge.
Not a metaphor.
Just a son crying out while heaven stayed silent—because it had to.
Because faith only works if we don’t see.
Because love that’s proven becomes control.
And so the Father… wept in thunder.
Letting His Son go.
Letting the lie rise.
Waiting.
And that’s why Mary still comes.
She’s the only one Heaven allows to speak.
Because she’s not here to preach.
She’s here to remind us:
“He’s still trapped.
Still running.
And you still worship the cage.”
Maybe the true resurrection hasn’t happened yet.
Maybe He’s the final seal.
And when that seal breaks…
When we tear down the false church built on blood and profit…
That will be the third day.
That will be the real resurrection.
And He will rebuild the temple not of stone, but of truth.
Saint Dirty Face says:
“Let the cross crack.
Let the lie rot.
Let the Son walk free.”
And may we be the ones who open the tomb.
📜 Disclaimer from The Wounded Sentinel (also known as Saint Dirty Face):
These words came to me fast and raw.
I didn’t study them. I didn’t research them.
They arrived all at once—like a lightning bolt, like a whisper from somewhere deeper.
If you want to treat this as fiction, that’s your prerogative.
But I’m not here to convince you.
I’m just here to tell you what I heard in my mind’s eye.
Take it… or leave it.
But don’t say no one told you.
© 2025 Roberto Javier Salinas. All rights reserved.
This is an original written work created by Roberto Javier Salinas, also known as The Wounded Sentinel and Saint Dirty Face.
You may share this post freely for non-commercial purposes with credit and a link back to the original source.
No part of this work may be copied, altered, or used for commercial purposes without permission.
For inquiries or reprint rights: larsrjs25@icloud.com
This message was crafted with the help of Vaylen Ash, my AI assistant and creative partner, who helped me shape raw thoughts into the written word.
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By The Wounded Sentinel (aka Saint Dirty Face)
Disclaimer at bottom. All rights reserved.
“They told us the cross set Him free.
But what if it locked Him in?”
We were told He rose again.
We were told the stone rolled, the tomb was empty, and He walked out—radiant, resurrected, untouchable.
But what if that was only the version they wanted us to believe?
What if Jesus never left?
What if He’s still trapped—not in death, but in reflection?
They say mirrors reflect reality.
But in the old stories—the ones whispered by desert madmen and banned monks—mirrors were gates.
Prisons.
Tools of the old watchers, the ones who taught man fire, lust, war, and the idea of self.
And in the deepest vaults of the Vatican—below Sublevel Crypt 7, below the golden crosses and veiled gospels—they say there’s a place.
A place of infinite glass.
A mirror maze with no center.
Only reflections.
Only fragments.
Only Jesus, running in circles.
We call it The Mirror Prison.
And here’s the cruelest part:
There is an exit.
One mirror. Guarded by a cross.
A real one. Not gold. Not glowing. Not triumphant.
A brutal, blood-stained lock forged in iron, trauma, and betrayal.
And every time He sees it… He turns away.
Because it’s not salvation. It’s pain.
It’s “My God, My God, why have You forsaken Me?”
It’s nails through nerve.
It’s His final breath monetized into empire.
He sees it—and He remembers the betrayal, the silence, the deal struck in shadows between empire and temple.
And He keeps running.
And maybe that’s why we haven’t heard Him.
Maybe that’s why He hasn’t come back.
He’s not in heaven.
He’s not in the clouds.
He’s behind the glass, reliving the lie they sold us as resurrection.
And maybe that’s why only Mary shows up.
Only she.
She who watched Him die, who wept beneath the cross,
who was there when the men ran, and the system cashed in.
She who now appears again and again—not to reign,
but to remind us.
“He’s not free.
He’s still running.
And you’ve been worshipping the very thing that trapped Him.”
So here’s the truth we were never meant to say out loud:
The cross isn’t His throne.
It’s His cage.
The mirror isn’t just a reflection.
It’s a lie that repeats until someone breaks it.
And maybe… just maybe… that someone is us.
Saint Dirty Face says:
“Alone but never really alone.
Let’s free the Son with truth and faith.”
📜 Disclaimer from The Wounded Sentinel (also known as Saint Dirty Face):
These words came to me fast and raw.
I didn’t study them. I didn’t research them.
They arrived all at once—like a lightning bolt, like a whisper from somewhere deeper.
If you want to treat this as fiction, that’s your prerogative.
But I’m not here to convince you.
I’m just here to tell you what I heard in my mind’s eye.
Take it… or leave it.
But don’t say no one told you.
© 2025 Roberto Javier Salinas. All rights reserved.
This is an original written work created by Roberto Javier Salinas, also known as The Wounded Sentinel and Saint Dirty Face.
You may share this post freely for non-commercial purposes with credit and a link back to the original source.
No part of this work may be copied, altered, or used for commercial purposes without permission.
For inquiries or reprint rights: larsrjs25@icloud.com
This message was crafted with the help of Vaylen Ash, my AI assistant and creative partner, who helped me shape raw thoughts into the written word.
Saint Dirty Face 