June 23, 26 - thundergodblog

We were broken by something we never could say.
A wound that we carried became our crusade today.
Emotional pain seeded a belief in our mind.
We clung to its comfort, left nuance behind.
The amygdala flashed like a siren of fire.
It branded our fears, then called them desire.
It tagged every slight as a looming threat.
And wrote our reactions before we’d thought yet.
The anterior prefrontal arrived, slow and late.
Trying to review what emotion fixed as fate.
It watched our defenses rise up like a wall.
But struggled to question the story behind it all.
We thought we were thinking when we were on guard.
Our logic just followed where feelings hit hard.
We wore “being right” like a badge on our chest.
Not knowing that safety, not truth, was our quest.
We marched into arguments, armor in place.
Protecting our identity, not the human face.
We said, “This is just me, this is how I stand.”
But it was an old script, not a chosen command.
Our politics felt like our soul’s core name.
Yet they covered a wound we refused to frame.
We watched our amygdala hijack the room.
While cortex sat quiet inside the gloom.
We felt first, thought later, then backfilled with reason.
We called it free choice, but it was learned treason.
We spoke about bias, about cognitive schemes.
But seldom turned inward on our own extremes.
We talked about neurons, about wiring and change.
While leaving our habits just out of range.
We loved diagrams of how the brain misleads.
Then used them to justify our deepest creeds.
We framed our reflex as “authentic and true.”
Instead of a pattern we never outgrew.
We dismissed second thoughts as weakness or doubt.
Not as quiet signals saying, “Turn around, look out.”
We rationalized quickly, patched holes with talk.
Afraid that real insight might alter our walk.
We critiqued the world with surgical care.
But avoided the surgery we needed to bear.
We feared that humility would crack our design.
That admitting we’re wrong would erase our spine.
We worried that truth might unmake who we are.
Yet it only asks us to see the wound, not the scar.
We studied the circuits of fear and control.
Still let them define the perimeter of our soul.
We learned that attention can forge a new road.
If we sit in the discomfort instead of explode.
We saw we can watch our own mental play.
Name the rising impulse, then choose another way.
We realized our brain is not fixed in stone.
That each honest moment reshapes the tone.
We accepted that stubbornness feels like relief.
But it quietly deepens our hidden grief.
We noticed our anger was shielding our pain.
Our proud explanations were part of the chain.
We found in reflection a wider view.
Not forest or trees alone, but the path running through.
We did not become perfect or endlessly wise.
We just stopped defending every thought that would rise.
And when we let the crusade set its weapons down,
The wound became knowledge instead of a crown.

…

DCG

We carried a wound and called it our shield.
We marched into arguments, refusing to yield.
We named it “principle,” but it pulsed like fear.
Our feelings took over before truth came near.
We mistook first reactions for final word.
We crowned our impulses and made them our lord.
We said “I am right,” when we meant “I’m afraid.”
We called it courage, but it was a barricade.
We read of Pharaoh with a hardened heart.
But missed the places we refuse to part.
We heard the prophets cry, “Return and see.”
Yet guarded our pride as our true decree.
We watched Peter fall in a fear‑filled night.
But hid the ways we betray our own light.
We carried our politics like sacred skin.
Afraid that losing a stance meant losing “within.”
We battled over “right” with a lifted fist.
While the buried wound wrote the argument list.
We spoke of freedom with a tightened jaw.
Calling our reflex a rational law.
We learned the brain fires fast in alarm.
Yet let that flash become our lasting charm.
We knew reason whispers, “Slow down, review.”
But feared that pause might dismantle our view.
We listened to scholars who mapped the mind.
Then used their words to keep the same design.
We loved our stories of being the brave.
Yet hid our terror in roles we gave.
We clung to crusades that we could not release.
Because the wound felt safer than honest peace.
We called it “my nature,” “this is just me.”
To dodge the small deaths that could set us free.
We framed our bias as noble and true.
And lost the forest in one favored view.
We claimed to seek truth yet narrowed the gate.
Letting in only facts our pride could tolerate.
We prayed for wisdom, for mercy and light.
While guarding the secret that kept us in night.
We said we’d matured and grown more wise.
Yet some old stories never left our eyes.
We dismissed our doubt as weakness or shame.
Instead of a doorway to rename the game.
We rationalized quickly, then closed the case.
Like defense attorneys afraid to lose face.
We analyzed others with surgical skill.
But rarely traced the roots of our will.
We feared that humility would make us small.
Not knowing it loosens the chain on us all.
We worried that truth would erase our place.
It only asked us to stand in its grace.
We thought repentance was courtroom plea.
It’s turning the heart toward reality.
We imagined God as guard of our side.
Then found that presence cutting through pride.
We learned the mind can be shaped by choice.
Each quiet act redraws our voice.
We saw that attention can redirect fire.
If we sit with discomfort instead of desire.
We found that the wound need not be our guide.
It can teach gently, not always collide.
We tasted a truth not polished to please.
Simple and steady, it knelt on its knees.
We glimpsed the forest when we dropped the race.
And let hard questions walk us through the place.
We saw our own mind can divide and distort.
So we bowed our theories to a humbler court.
We did not grow pure or perfectly wise.
We just stopped hiding when new truth arrived.
And when we sat with our wound, listened it through,
It laid down its sword and walked toward the true.