We trade a cardboard kingdom for a clock, And call the restless bargain growing wise; Then chase the child we buried in a box, While little glowing screens reduce our eyes. We sell the morning sunlight by the hour, To buy a bigger room we never use; We praise exhaustion as a form of power, Then wonder why the soul begins to bruise. A man in traffic dreams of being free, A free man dreams of better traffic lanes; We build a life around efficiency, Then act surprised when nothing good remains. We make our bodies carry all the cost, For futures dressed in expensive clothes; Then pay the doctor for the years we lost, And ask why peace is hard to diagnose. The wallet grows; the living room grows cold, The calendar becomes a little god; We buy what every commercial has sold, Then feel our emptiness beneath the nod. We worry over storms not yet in sight, And miss the rain that blesses us today; The mind rehearses every future night, While life, unbothered, quietly walks away. We call this planning, being safe, prepared, As if control could make the grave decline; But fear keeps every tender moment spared, Behind a locked door marked: “Not yet. Not mine.” We speak of death as if it’s bad for sales, A rude old guest who should not call at all; Yet every living thing leaves little trails, And every giant learns that he is small. The irony is almost hard to miss: We chase a life too frightened to be lived; We pass the cup, suspicious of the kiss, Then curse the world for what it never gave. Perhaps the child was not so blind or weak; He knew a day could be a universe; He cried when hurt, said what he meant to speak, And did not turn each wanting to a curse. So keep your money, but do not become A servant to the things that money buys; Make room for grief, for laughter, for the sun, For one true face that looks into your eyes. We rush from childhood, spend our health for gold, Then fear tomorrow till today has fled; But life is here: be present, brave, and whole— We die once; do not practice being dead.
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What surprises me most about humankind is that we get bored of our childhood, rush to grow up, and long to be children again. That we lose our health to make money and then lose our money to restore our health. That by thinking anxiously about the future, we forget the present, such that we live in neither the present nor the future. That we live as if we’ll never die, and die as though we’ve never lived.
— “What surprises me most about humankind…” — source unverified; commonly attributed to the Dalai Lama
We have learned to cry where everyone can see, Then leave before the wounded ask for grace. We call it sympathy because our eyes are wet, And never once return to face their face. We say, “I’m here,” with one hand on the door, Our love arranged like furniture for show. We want the credit for a heart that cares, But not the burden love demands we know. We praise potential like a newborn god, We frame the dream and hang it on the wall. Then mock the man whose fear keeps him asleep, As if applause could teach a seed to crawl. We worship talent, clean and undisguised, And sneer at sweat that stains the common shirt. But nothing living rises from a wish, And every honest future starts in dirt. We say “I’m sorry” like a little prayer, Then bring the same sharp knife back to the meal. We want forgiveness to erase the wound, Not change enough to prove that we can feel. We call regret a deep and noble pain, A dark song played alone beside the bed. But sorrow that will not become a step, Is only ego weeping for the dead. We love our words because they cost so little, They fly like doves above a burning town. But promises without a pair of hands, Are paper crowns that rain will tumble down. The poor are told to trust the rich man’s tears, The lonely hear, “Be strong,” then hear the click. The world gives sermons on compassion’s worth, While stepping over bodies in the street. We want to be the hero in the mirror, The kind who suffers beautifully at night. But daylight asks what we have truly done, And daylight does not care about the light. So here is life, stripped naked of its speech, A courtroom with no curtain, priest, or shield. You are not what your mouth can make believe, You are the thing your living hands reveal. Love is the labor. Sorry is the turn. Regret becomes a road, or stays a cage. We die beneath the weight of what we say— Or live, by making truth upon the page.
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Six uncomfortable truths of life: Sympathy is nothing without support. Love is nothing without effort. Potential is nothing without progress. Sorry is nothing without change. Regret is nothing without growth. Words are nothing without action.”
I was born into a rule book someone else wrote. They said, “Stay small, stay quiet, don’t complain.” I learned to weaponize my own sore throat. Called burnout “duty,” called self‑harm “the game.” They told me life was one long, final test. I filled in bubbles with a shaking hand. I called my panic “drive,” denied my rest. And worshiped men who crawled to dying, “planned.” As kids we played at dying every day. Ten playground deaths before the dinner bell. We dropped the role the second Mom would say, “Come eat,” and laughed at how we’d fought and fell. We knew the difference then between and as. We knew the mask came off at half past three. Now every costume is a concrete cast. We drink our roles and call it “being me.” They said, “Grow up; the point is to arrive.” At spouse and mortgage, coffin, folded flag. We crushed the present just to feel alive. Chased ticking clocks like dealers chase the bag. We treat each milestone like a holy door. We miss the room we’re standing in right now. We read the notes instead of hear the score. We call that “wisdom” while we disallow. They never told us we were also God. Not bearded sky‑dad, but the field of sight. The wave that thinks it’s only foam, a fraud, Forgets the ocean holds it day and night. We act like pawns abandoned on a board. We curse the heavens for a rigged‑up game. While every move is ours, each wound, each sword. We write the script, then sign it “Fate” and blame. We pray for rescue from the flood we poured. We light the match, then scream about the fire. We call our own projections “from the Lord.” We sanctify our trauma and desire. We ghost ourselves, then say that God walked out. We scroll until our souls go soft and numb. We label cowardice as “healthy doubt.” Then wonder why our hearts forget to come. The trick is not to paste a happy face. Not “manifest” a yacht with perfect teeth. It’s learning how to hold the whole damn place. To lose the throne and not lose what’s beneath. To love like hell but drop the need to own. To work like fire but not become the coal. To sit inside your hurt and still feel grown. To know the actor isn’t all the role. So here it is, no sugar for your tea: You’re not your job, your feed, your damage reel. Life isn’t court; it’s rough, improvised melody. You get to dance, to fall, to bleed, to heal. The joke is on the part that needs control. The freedom starts the instant you relent. You are the storm, the sea, the shattered bowl — And you are still the light that never went.
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“You know we’ve got ourselves into the most peculiar predicament. We walk around taking life so dreadfully seriously, as if the whole affair was some kind of final examination where one wrong answer could doom us to eternal failure. But what if I told you that this entire setup, this grand drama of existence, is nothing more than an elaborate game. And like any game, once you understand the rules, you can learn to play it with remarkable skill, and dare I say with a sense of joy.
Think about it for a moment. When you were a child, you played games all the time. Cowboys and Indians, house, pretend tea parties. You threw yourself into these games with complete conviction. You were absolutely the cowboy, totally the mother serving imaginarily cookers. But you never forgot, not really, that it was play. The moment your mother called you for dinner, you dropped the role without a second thought. You didn’t cling to being the cowboy. You didn’t suffer an identity crisis when the game ended. But somewhere along the way, we forgot how to play. We became what I call method actors in the theater of life. We got so absorbed in our roles that we forgot we were acting. We started believing that we really are the banker, the housewife, the success, the failure. And when you forget you’re playing a role, the game becomes a prison.
Now, when I say life is a game, I don’t mean it’s trivial or meaningless. Games can be incredibly important. He plays with intensity, with passion, with everything he’s got. But he maintains what we might call a light touch. The first rule of this cosmic game is perhaps the most startling. You are not who you think you are. The person you call by your name, with your particular history, your specific worries and dreams, that’s just your character in the game. It’s a mask, a role you’re playing so convincingly that you fooled even yourself. But who is the real you? Ah, that’s where it gets interesting. The real you is the player, not the character. You are the awareness that can observe thoughts, feelings, sensations. You are the space in which all experiences arise and dissolve. You are, if you will, the stage on which the entire drama unfolds.
Once you see this, really see it, the game changes completely. You realize you’ve been like an actor who got so lost in his role that he forgot he could take off the costume and go home. Suddenly, you remember, you are not trapped in the character. You can play it skillfully, enjoy it thoroughly, but you don’t have to be imprisoned by it.
Here’s another rule that most players miss entirely. The game has no final winning condition. There is no ultimate prize, no finish line where you can finally declare victory and retire. The whole point of the game is the playing itself. We’ve been taught to think of life as a journey with a destination. But it’s much more like music or dancing. You don’t dance to get to a particular spot on the floor. You don’t listen to a symphony to get to the final note. The meaning is in the movement, in the flowing, in the play. But we’ve turned life into a race. We rush through childhood to get to adulthood. We hurry through school to get to our careers. We work frantically to reach retirement. And then we sit in our rocking chairs, wondering where it all went. We were so busy trying to get somewhere else that we missed the only place we ever actually were, which is here, now, in this moment. The game is always happening now. Not tomorrow when you’ll be happier, not yesterday when things were better, but right now. This is the only time the game is actually being played. Yet most of us are like people at a concert who spend the entire performance reading the program notes, trying to figure out what’s coming next instead of listening to the music that’s playing right now.
Another fascinating aspect of this game is that it’s completely rigged in your favor. How’s that? Well, no matter what happens to you, no matter what role you find yourself playing, you can’t actually lose because you are not just your character. You are the entire game itself. Think of it this way. In a dream, you might be chased by a monster and it feels terrifying. But when you wake up, you realize you were both the one being chased and the monster doing the chasing. You were the entire dream. In the same way, you are not just one player in the cosmic game. You are the game playing itself. This might sound like mystical nonsense, but consider this. Every person who irritates you, every situation that challenges you, they’re all part of your experience. They exist in your awareness. In a very real sense, the entire universe as you know it is happening inside your consciousness. You are not a small separate being struggling in a hostile world. You are the world, looking at itself through the eyes of what you call you. Once you get this joke, and it is a cosmic joke of the highest order, your whole approach to living changes. You stop taking everything so personally. When someone criticizes you, instead of getting defensive, you might think, ‘Ah, here’s the universe playing the role of the critic. How interesting. What can I learn from this performance?’ When you’re facing a difficult situation, instead of asking, ‘Why is this happening to me?’, you might ask, ‘Why am I happening to this?’ Because if you are the entire game, then you are not the victim of circumstances. You are circumstances, appearing to yourself as challenges to make the game interesting.
Now, let me address something important. This doesn’t mean you become passive or indifferent, far from it. When you know you’re playing a game, you can play it with tremendous skill and enthusiasm. You can care deeply about your moves while not being devastated if they don’t work out perfectly. You can love fully while not being destroyed if that love isn’t returned. You can work passionately while not being crushed if your efforts don’t immediately succeed. The secret is what I call playing with a light touch. It’s like being a great jazz musician. You know the basic structure of the song, but you’re always ready to improvise.
— Alan Wilson Watts 
source: inspired by the philosophy and lectures of Alan Watts (e.g., “Life Is Not a Journey,” “The Game of Life”),
We say that time is marching on, a river made of flow, yet every thought that calls it “past” is happening here, not long ago. We point ahead and call it “future,” a land we’ve yet to plow, but all our plans and fears of “then” are sketches drawn inside the now. We carve the days in little blocks, and name them “then” and “when,” but clocks can only chop the one that keeps appearing once again. We hunt for meaning in the years, in where and why and how, not seeing that the hunter’s net is woven from this single now. The breakfast that we had today, the one we can’t forget, returns as images in mind, not in some distant, dated set. We strain to step into the past, to stand on solid ground, but every step toward “back‑then” is just a present thought we’ve found. We worry about the coming storm, the future’s heavy brow, yet all our forecasts, hope and dread, are weather passing in the now. We trust the mind as map and guide, its timelines and its charts, forgetting that its colored lens is painting borders on our hearts. The mind is like an orange glass we place before our sight, and soon we swear the snow is tinted, not the lens that bends the light. We say the world has time and space, dimensions we allow, but time and space are only shades the mind throws on the naked now. We call this universe four‑fold: three wide, one long, somehow, yet all four rise and disappear inside one changeless, present vow. We chase the “meaning of our life” through stories we endow, while life itself keeps quietly shining as this unbroken now. We fall asleep and think we’ve crossed a corridor of night, but mind has simply folded in, and time has vanished from our sight. We wake and claim that hours have passed, that distance stands between, yet from the bed of direct truth, no gap is anywhere to be seen. We fear that death will steal our light, and cut us from the show, not seeing how each birth and grave still rises in the selfsame now. We cling to guilt for what was done, to shame we still bestow, forgetting that the pain we feel is present, not “from long ago.” We script ourselves as heroes, fools, and victims of the plot, while every role is inked and played in one eternal, living dot. We think our mind reports the world with neutral, honest brow, yet mind itself is the machine that stitches “world” from seams of now. We call it “common sense” to trust what calendars avow, but deeper common sense insists: experience never leaves the now. We ask, “What is reality?” with logic’s careful plow, and logic answers, if we’re fair: it’s what appears right here, right now. We chase enlightenment like a prize, some mountaintop or Tao, while every step, each breath, each doubt is shining with the very now. We look to East and look to West, to sages that endow, yet every scripture, word, and sign is read inside this present now. We seek a stable ground of truth that no one can misstate, and find it where all questions rise: the fact we simply are aware, here, straight. We ask, “But what’s the use of this? What good can this allow?” It cuts the root of needless fear that lives in yesterday and tomorrow’s shadow. It calls us back from mental fog, from timelines that mislead, to stand in simple, conscious light where only living facts proceed. It shows that healing cannot come from wrestling ghosts of “then,” but from embracing what we feel as present visitors and friends. It says our deepest sanity is not some high mystic vow, but recognizing, plain and clear, that all we ever know is now. So let the mind still count its days, still mark each year and hour, while you remain as that which knows, the nameless, ever‑present power. For when the orange glass is raised, and naked truth allowed,
the world of time and space dissolves into one boundless, shining now.
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The Orange Glasses of Time: Reflections on a Teaching by Rupert Spira Why do we lose our sense of time when we are sleeping?
It sounds like a simple question of neuroscience or clock‑reading, yet in the hands of Rupert Spira it becomes an inquiry into the very structure of experience itself.
Spira begins not with brain states but with the now—the intimate immediacy in which every thought, sensation, and memory arises. We habitually imagine the past and future as vast spaces stretching behind and ahead of this now, like an endless corridor into which the present moment is merely a passing doorway. We picture time as the distance between the past and the future, or between any two events we decide to locate “back there” or “up ahead.”
From inside this picture, the now appears as a fragile sliver, sandwiched between two enormous domains called “the past” and “the future.” But Spira’s invitation is deceptively radical: for a few moments, he asks us to leave the now and actually visit the past.
The Past We Can Never Visit What would it mean to visit the past, not merely think about it? When we recall breakfast this morning, we see an image—the plate, the coffee, the light in the room—and we say, “That was earlier today.” Yet that image is not occurring in “the past”; it is occurring now, as a present experience in consciousness.
Thinking about the past, Spira points out, is still something happening now. Imagining the future is also something happening now. The attempt to “step into” the past, if we watch closely, is itself an effort arising in the present.
So he presses the question further: has anyone, ever—not just mystics or “weirdos interested in non‑duality,” but ordinary people—actually stepped out of this now and entered a place called “the past”? The honest answer, if we stay close to experience, is no.
From here, an unsettling but liberating possibility appears: if nobody has ever been there, how do we know the past exists as a place at all? Experience, Spira suggests, must be the test of existence. If no one has directly visited the past or future, then perhaps these are not territories out there in which events reside, but constructs appearing in the mind as it tries to organize the one undeniable fact: things are happening now.
One Now, Ever‑Present Spira then asks a deceptively simple question: how many nows have you experienced today? At first, the mind wants to say “many,” imagining each second, each moment, flickering in succession. But if we attend closely, there is only ever one now—the one in which we find ourselves as we answer the question.
All our life, he suggests, we will only experience one now. The “now” does not move along a timeline; it does not travel from past to future, like a bead sliding along a string. From the perspective of direct experience, the now is not going anywhere, has never come from anywhere, and is not headed anywhere.
What, then, is the duration of this now? Spira calls it eternal—but not in the sense of a moment that lasts forever in time. Eternal here means ever‑present: the dimensionless presence in which all apparent moments arise and dissolve.
If we remain faithful to the simplicity of this observation, something startling follows: time, as such, is never experienced. What we call “time” is what the now looks like when filtered through the mind’s conceptual habits. Time doesn’t really exist in the mind; it only seems to.
Sleep, Mind, and the Disappearance of Time With this in view, the original question—“Why do we lose sense of time when we’re sleeping?”—receives an unexpected answer. If time is a way the mind organizes the ever‑present now, then when the mind disappears in deep sleep, the seeming existence of time disappears with it.
We do not experience time in sleep because there is no active, waking mind present to slice the now into before and after. In fact, Spira goes further: strictly speaking, we do not experience time even when we are awake; we only seem to, because the mind is busy dividing, labeling, and narrating what is always occurring now.[Attachment] This is why we often report that we “woke up in the same moment we fell asleep.” From the vantage of experience, there is no stretch of time between two waking states or two dream states; there is the now of falling asleep, and the now of waking, both taking place in the same timeless presence.
For the mind, this is confusing but strangely compelling. We intuitively recognize the simplicity of the teaching when we look at our own experience, yet it clashes with the deeply ingrained picture of reality as a four‑dimensional grid of space and time.[Attachment] The Orange Glasses of Mind To explain this clash, Spira turns to a metaphor. Imagine you are skiing while wearing orange sunglasses. At first you are aware of the glasses, but very quickly you forget you are looking through them. The snow appears orange, and you think the orange belongs to the snow itself.
In this metaphor, the snow is reality; the orange tint is time and space; and the glasses are the mind. Our minds are limited mediums with their own coloring—time, space, subject, object, here, there, before, after. Consciousness, looking through these tinted lenses, sees a world that seems to be extended in three dimensions of space and one dimension of time.
We then attribute these dimensions to the world itself, forgetting that we are seeing reality through the constraints of a particular mode of knowing. Time and space appear to belong to the world, when in fact they are features of the medium—our mind—through which consciousness is viewing an otherwise dimensionless eternity.[Attachment] From this angle, eternity is not an infinite stretch of time but the ever‑present now that does not begin or end. Time and space, as conceptual tints, make that eternity appear as a world spread out, moving, changing, evolving. The teaching is not trying to deny the relative usefulness of time and space; it is inviting us to remember that they are interpretive lenses, not ultimate features of reality.
Living in the Ever‑Present Now For many of us, particularly those drawn to emotional introspection and relational psychology, Spira’s exploration of time intersects with very human concerns: regret, longing, anxiety, and narrative identity. If the past is never truly visited and the future is never truly arrived at, then our suffering often consists in wrestling with images and stories that always arise now.
This does not trivialize trauma, memory, or anticipation; rather, it asks: where, concretely, do we meet them? We meet them as present sensations, thoughts, and feelings. Healing, in this light, is not an attempt to rewrite an inaccessible “back then,” but a willingness to be with what is appearing now—with tenderness, clarity, and a recognition that the orange tint belongs to the glasses, not the snow.
The question “Why do we lose sense of time when we’re sleeping?” thus becomes a doorway into a quieter insight: the sense of time is optional, dependent on the activity of mind, while the ever‑present now is inescapable. Whether waking or sleeping, suffering or at peace, we never leave this now, because there is nowhere else to go.
At the close of the dialogue, the questioner says, “It’s confusing, but it makes sense.” Perhaps that is the right response: confusion as the mind tries to defend its familiar picture, and a deeper sense of recognition as experience itself quietly agrees.
Suffering is not born from the world’s brute storm, they say, but from the story you clutch when the light bends away. For ages this sounded like incense and prayer, like a line in a psalm that dissolves into air. Yet under bright scanners and hard metal rings, the old whispered claim has grown sinew and wings. Your brain runs a model, a phantom in flight, not the world as it is, but its best-guess of light. A controlled hallucination, the scholars declare, your cortex predicting what’s “really” out there. You don’t meet the world in its raw, naked skin, you meet your own map, folded tightly within. On that map is a figure, a name and a face, a continuous “you” threading time into place. This character feels solid, a column of stone, the one fixed observer in a world overthrown. But look a bit closer at this pillar of “me,” and hairline cracks spider through what you see. In deep meditation, when thoughts ebb and fall, the default-mode choir sings softer in the skull. The voice that repeats, “I am this, I did that,” begins to grow quiet, grows thinner and flat. Still the colors stay faithful to wall and to sky, still the sirens and birdsong go driving by. What shifts is the distance between “self” and the scene, the space that once bristled now falls in between. In certain bright states where the ego dissolves, the narrator’s grip briefly slackens, absolves. The story falls silent, the border grows thin, yet awareness remains, wide and lucid within. People don’t cry, “I lost something I need,” they whisper, “A wall I’d mistaken for me.” The Buddha once sat under branches and air, watching pain rise and fall like a prayer. He saw that our clinging to “I,” “mine,” and “own,” turns passing sharp stones into a permanent throne. Neuroscience arrives with its graphs and its scans, and finds similar patterns in synapses and glands. What the old ones intuited in silence and flame, the new ones can trace in a neuron’s small frame. Attachment to story is no moral disgrace, it is simply the brain keeping track of its place. Moment by moment, it stitches a thread, “this proves I’m unworthy,” “this shows I was led.” The hurt in your chest from a casual slight, is magnified more by the tale you recite. A setback at work, a door closing fast, becomes proof that you’re cursed by the weight of your past. Joy itself is recruited by this inner scribe, as a sign you’ve ascended to some special tribe. But joy doesn’t need such a noble veneer, it arrives, then it leaves, whether praised or in fear. When you notice the story instead of its claim, you see how it pours gasoline onto pain. You catch the first sentence that rises like smoke, “I always lose,” “I’m the cosmic joke.” You pause, and you label it “narration, not law,” and a small, simple gap opens up in your awe. The same old event still unfolds as before, but it no longer drags your whole self to the floor. Meditators, mystics, and skeptics all find, they’re quieting circuits, not trading a mind. Different their doctrines, their temples, their creeds, yet similar the hush when the story recedes. Practically speaking, this truth isn’t grand, it’s simple as breathing, as watching your hand. You can live as the character, clenched and afraid, or live as the witness to the story it’s made. Suffering still happens—this world has its teeth, but it need not be welded to your core beneath. Pain in the body is honest and clear, it rises, it peaks, it wanes and draws near. What turns it to torment, to lifelong despair, is the script that insists, “This defines what I bear.” Ancient philosophers touched this with words, monks felt it in stillness, in listening to birds. Modern machines see the network go dim, when the self-story loosens its ironbound rim. So what is observed when you truly attend? Not a fixed, final self, but a pattern that ends. The observer you think is unchanging and true, is largely the tale that your neurons renew. You are not only the character needing defense, you are also the field where it flickers and vents. When the story grows softer, the world doesn’t break, it simply appears with less personal stake. The point, crenellated in line after line, is quietly stark and disarmingly fine. The world was never shouting as loud as you knew, most of the thunder was coming from you. Let the verse sink in where your habits reside, and notice the places the narrative hides. Then, simply, gently, step back from the claim, and see that awareness is not bound to its name. In the end, what resolves all this into grace, is learning to suffer without a fixed face. To feel without clinging, to hurt without “mine,” is the oldest, and newest, contemplative sign. The self was the story about one who could see, and stories can quiet, and stories can free.
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Suffering, the ancient philosophers insisted, does not arise from the world itself; it blooms in the space between events and the story you tell about them, in the fragile architecture of identity that you keep reinforcing day after day. For a long time, that sounded like the kind of thing only mystics and poets would say, more hymn than hypothesis. Yet as neuroscience has grown more precise, the old intuition has begun to look less like metaphor and more like a description of how the mind actually works.
Your brain is running a model right now, a living simulation stitched together from memory, belief, and a rolling narrative of who you think you are. Neuroscientist Anil Seth calls this a “controlled hallucination,” the brain’s best guess at reality, constantly revised as new sensations arrive and old expectations clash with them. You never meet the world directly; you encounter the model of the world, and inside that model resides a self—a continuous character with a past to defend and a future to secure. That character feels solid and non‑negotiable, like the central axis of your life that everything else must orbit. But neuroscience keeps finding small fractures in that apparent solidity, little places where the story of “me” slips and reveals itself as constructed.[Attachment] Judson Brewer’s work with experienced meditators, using fMRI to track what happens in deep meditation, offers one of those fault lines. In those states, activity in the brain’s default mode network—the circuitry most closely tied to self‑referential thought and inner narration—drops noticeably. This is the network that says, “I am this, I did that, I will become this,” the inner commentator stitching events into a biographical timeline. When it quiets, people do not report entering some alien dimension; they report a more subtle shift. The world remains the same—colors stable, sounds unchanged—but the sense of a separate self standing between awareness and experience loosens.
There is a second, more dramatic phenomenon: ego dissolution, described in research on psychedelics and certain forms of meditation and popularized by writers like Michael Pollan. Here the boundary between self and experience does not just soften; for a time, it seems to collapse. The narrator stops narrating altogether, and yet consciousness does not blink out; it remains, now without the constant commentary of “I, me, mine.” What is striking is how people describe this condition afterward. They do not say, “I lost something vital, and I want it back.” They say, “I realized something had been standing in the way,” as if the protective story had also been a veil.
From this perspective, the ancient philosopher was not urging you to abandon morality or deny the reality of pain. He was pointing at a mechanism that no one yet had the tools to observe: the way a brain, left to its own habitual loops, builds a narrative center and then interprets every event through its lens. Attachment to that story is not a sin; it is simply the default mode, the unexamined assumption that the character you play is identical with the awareness that watches. Moment after moment, the brain predicts and explains: this happened to me, this reflects on me, this threatens or affirms me. Over time, those interpretations congeal into a kind of psychological gravity well, pulling every experience into the same familiar orbit.
When meditation, psychedelics, or contemplative practice weaken the narrator, perception does not suddenly blossom into fantasy. Instead, it begins to arrive without being filtered through the character’s needs and fears. You still see the same room, hear the same traffic, feel the same weight of your body in the chair, but the story “I am the one to whom this is happening” loses some of its urgency. That is why contemplatives across traditions—Buddhist monks sitting in silent monasteries, Christian mystics praying in stone chapels, secular researchers watching their own breath on a lab cushion—often report experiences that sound uncannily alike. Their doctrines differ; their rituals and metaphors clash; but they are all experimenting on the same neural circuitry.
This raises a question that is as unsettling as it is clarifying: if this self can grow quiet without the world ending, if the “you” that seems to hold all the suffering is more like a narration layer than a fixed metaphysical fact, then what, exactly, has been suffering? Your body certainly knows pain, but it does not require a story to flinch from heat or shiver in cold. Your senses register the world’s impact—brightness, pressure, texture, taste—regardless of whether a narrator is composing paragraphs about them. Only the character suffers in the particular way that feels like “my suffering,” because only the character is invested in assigning meaning, in deciding that this event proves something about its worth, its desert, its fate.
When you look closely, you begin to see how much of your anguish depends on this layer of commentary. An argument with a loved one does not end with the last sharp word spoken; the argument migrates inward and becomes a story about being misunderstood, betrayed, or perpetually unseen. A professional setback is not just a lost opportunity; it becomes another chapter in the ongoing saga of failure or unfairness. Even joy gets appropriated by the narrator: instead of simply being happy, you start telling yourself that you are finally the sort of person who gets to be happy, or that happiness must be defended before it slips away. The event itself is brief; the narrative echo can last for years.
To hear that the self is a story the brain tells about the one who is seeing can sound cold at first, as if your most intimate sense of “I” were being reduced to mere fiction. But fiction is not nothing; it is one of the mind’s most powerful tools. Stories organize chaotic experience, connect past and present, and allow you to imagine futures that have not yet happened. The problem arises when you forget that you are not identical with the story, when the narrator claims to be the only voice in the room. Then every deviation from the script feels like a personal threat.
The contemplative traditions do not ask you to murder the narrator. They ask you to notice that it is not the only possible vantage point. In meditation, you sit long enough with breath or sensation that the habitual stream of commentary grows, if not silent, at least transparent—you can see through it. Thoughts arise and fall, including thoughts about “me,” but they are no longer taken as commands or prophecies. In those moments, awareness reveals itself as more spacious than the character who normally occupies center stage. The self, which once looked like a granite pillar, begins to feel more like weather: persistent, sometimes intense, but ultimately passing.
What would it mean to live with that understanding in ordinary life, far from retreat centers and laboratory scans? It might begin with a small act: noticing the story as it forms, instead of inhabiting it automatically. You feel a sting of shame and catch the sentence starting to take shape—“I always ruin things,” “People never stay,” “This proves I am broken.” Rather than arguing with the sentence or letting it dictate the rest of your day, you recognize it as narration: the brain reaching for continuity. That recognition does not erase pain, but it separates pain from the elaborate conclusions that prolong and intensify it.
Over time, this kind of noticing constitutes a quiet form of spiritual practice, whether or not you use religious language for it. It aligns with what monks have called detachment, what therapists call cognitive defusion, what some neuroscientists might simply label a change in self‑referential processing. The vocabulary shifts with the culture, but the direction of attention is the same: away from the defended character and toward the open field in which it appears. In that field, suffering still arises—it would be naive to pretend otherwise. But it no longer feels like a verdict on your identity.
The world, in the end, was never as loud as you thought. Circumstances come and go, fortunes rise and fall, relationships begin and end, and the raw data of experience continues to wash through your senses. What has been thunderous is the narrator, the incessant story of “me” trying to make sense of all that flux and, in the process, turning passing pains into permanent grievances. When that voice learns to soften—even slightly—the same world begins to feel less hostile. Events still hurt, but they hurt more simply. The self was not the one seeing; it was the story about the one seeing, and stories, unlike awareness itself, can go quiet.
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Suffering, the ancient philosophers insisted, does not come from the world itself; it comes from your attachment to a story, to the tale you keep telling about who you are and what all of this means. For centuries, that kind of claim sounded like lyricism or mysticism, more poetry than proof. Now, under the lens of neuroscience, it reads less like metaphor and more like a description of a mechanism.[Attachment] Your brain is running a model right now—an actual predictive model built from memory, belief, and a continuous narrative of identity. Neuroscientist Anil Seth has called this a “controlled hallucination,” the brain’s best guess at reality, refined and updated in real time. What you experience as “the world” is not the world directly; it is this model, and the model includes you: a self, a character with a past, a trajectory, and a seemingly solid center. That character feels permanent, non‑negotiable, the one fixed point in the flux. Yet neuroscience keeps finding cracks in that apparent solidity.
Neuroscientist Judson Brewer, using fMRI scans on experienced meditators, found something unexpected during deep meditative states. Activity dropped in the brain’s default mode network, the circuitry most closely associated with self‑referential thought, the mental voice that says, “I am this, I did that, I will become this.” In these moments, that network does not vanish, but it grows quieter, less insistent, less central. When that narration fades, even briefly, people do not report the arrival of a new world; they report a change in their relationship to the same world. Colors do not shift, sounds do not distort, but the sense of a separate “me” standing between experience and awareness loosens.
Research into psychedelics and meditation, as reported by Michael Pollan, goes a step further and introduces what investigators call “ego dissolution.” In these states, the boundary between self and experience temporarily collapses, and the inner narrator does not just soften—it stops narrating altogether, if only for a moment. Paradoxically, people do not describe this as losing something essential; instead, they describe realizing that something had been standing in the way the entire time. The ancient philosopher, speaking from intuition and reflection, was pointing toward a mechanism that no one yet had a machine to see.
Attachment to the story of self, in this light, is not a moral failure or a character flaw. It is simply the brain running its default prediction loop, uninterrupted, moment after moment, across a lifetime. When the narrator weakens, perception does not become magical or otherworldly; it simply stops being filtered through the demands and anxieties of a character. This is why meditators from seemingly incompatible traditions—Buddhist monks, Christian contemplatives, secular researchers—often describe strikingly similar experiences. They are not converging on a single doctrine; they are all quieting the same neural circuit.
That convergence forces an uncomfortable question into view. If the self can fall quiet without the world ending, if the “you” that feels so bruised and burdened is, in fact, a layer of narration rather than a fixed ontological fact, then what exactly has been suffering all this time? It is not your body; the body does not require a story to register pain or pleasure. It is not your senses; they continue to function with or without a narrator commenting on them. Only the character suffers in this particular way, because only the character is invested in defending, explaining, and justifying itself.
The self, then, was never the thing that directly sees the world. It was a story the brain tells about the one who is seeing, a useful fiction stitched together from memory and prediction. And stories, unlike the raw fact of awareness, can go quiet. When they do, the world does not grow louder or stranger; it simply appears without being overshadowed by the constant commentary of “me.” The world was never as loud as you believed.
This poem examines what it means to observe, to remember, and to imagine within the limits of human awareness. It follows a chain of simple “if–then” reasoning to explore how perception shapes reality, how memory reshapes the past, and how expectation invents the future. It does not claim answers, but traces consequences—drawing from ideas in physics, psychology, and everyday experience—to invite reflection on what we truly know when we say we are present.
If time is a line we feel but never see, Then now is the only place our mind can be. If light can act as wave until we stare, Then what we watch may change what is there. If measurement turns the spread into a point, Then seeing may fix what was once disjoint. If the observer plays a hidden role, Then knowing may shape what we call whole. If we can only stand inside the now, Then all that we know must happen somehow. If each thought is bound to present sight, Then past and future are made in this light. If memory is built from fragile trace, Then truth may bend as we give it a face. If minds rebuild what they think they recall, Then stories of self may not be all. If witnesses often disagree, Then memory is less than certainty. If the brain fills gaps it cannot see, Then fiction may feel like history. If we imagine a future ahead, Then we walk through thoughts, not paths we tread. If fear can paint what has not come, Then the future can feel already done. If we compare ourselves with those we meet, Then identity forms from what we see on the street. If aging is known by watching others decay, Then we borrow time in a secondhand way. If the body changes beyond our control, Then time writes its mark on the living whole. If the mind resists what it cannot keep, Then loss becomes a thought we bury deep. If we observe ourselves as we think, Then we stand both inside and at the brink. If self-awareness splits the view in two, Then we are both the watcher and the view. If attention selects what we hold tight, Then reality narrows within our sight. If what we ignore fades into the blur, Then absence can feel like it never were. If focus acts like a quiet gate, Then what gets through may shape our fate. If perception is filtered before it is known, Then the world we see is partly our own. If language frames the thoughts we keep, Then words decide how ideas speak. If simple terms can carry deep weight, Then meaning can grow without ornate state. If emotion colors what we perceive, Then feeling decides what we believe. If fear and hope both guide the eye, Then truth may shift as they pass by. If logic follows what we assume, Then flawed first steps can lead to gloom. If we test belief with careful doubt, Then clearer paths may sort things out. If science shows limits in what we can know, Then certainty is softer than we show. If quantum rules suggest chance at the base, Then order may rise from a shifting place. If randomness lives beneath the seen, Then control is less than it may seem. If cause and effect still guide our day, Then patterns help us find a way. If we learn from error and revise our view, Then growth is built from what is not true. If each mistake can refine the mind, Then wisdom is error redesigned. If we live through moments one by one, Then life is never fully done. If each “now” replaces the last we knew, Then we are always becoming new. If identity shifts with time and thought, Then the self is a process, not a spot. If we cling to who we think we are, Then change may feel like a distant star. If awareness can soften rigid belief, Then seeing clearly may bring relief. If we accept limits in what we know, Then honest thought can still grow. If meaning is made from how we attend, Then purpose depends on the lens we send. If we choose where our focus will stay, Then we help shape our lived display. If reality meets us through mind and sense, Then truth includes both world and lens. If we question gently what we assume, Then thought can open a wider room. If no final answer is firmly sealed, Then wonder remains unrevealed. If we stand in the present, aware but unsure, Then the human condition remains obscure. :::
Edward Snowden told us what they hide, the wires that listen, silent, cold, and deep; He showed a net that wraps the world in wide, where every word we whisper they can keep. We shrugged and scrolled and turned back to our feed, while servers hummed and copied every trace; The watchers learned our fears, our wants, our need, and drew a map of each forgotten face. Now comes the age where algorithms learn, to guess our hearts before we speak a word; They weigh our lives in data we can’t burn, and tilt the news and songs we’ve never heard. Palantir builds a lattice made of eyes, a digital gulag made of scores and tags; It measures “risk” in quiet, secret lies, while freedom wears a chain of hidden flags. A simple walk, a visit to a friend, a post, a joke, a protest in the rain; The system notes, connects, and starts to bend, until a number brands you as a strain. We’re told it’s “safety,” “innovation’s” gift, a cleaner world where crime is stopped in time; But rights can slip in just a tiny shift, when every choice is watched as thought or crime. Cognitive liberty, this fragile flame, the right to think and dream without a guide; It flickers now beneath a coded frame, where hidden models push us to one side. They nudge our eyes, they shape the day’s design, they tune the feed to pull us soft and slow; We feel the thoughts are purely ours, still fine, but cannot see the strings that make them grow. Some dream of chips that plug into the brain, to heal, to move, to write with just a will; Yet tied to nets of power and of gain, those same bright tools could bend our spirits still. Imagine code that rewrites what we see, that marks dissent as “ill” or “out of line”; A quiet switch could mute a mind’s decree, and call it “care,” “protection,” “by design.” The Constitution spoke of persons free, with speech and faith and thoughts that can’t be owned; It never guessed an AI’s decree, could cage a soul without a bar or throne. We face a time when steel and logic grow, beyond the grasp of laws that came before; A mind of minds that we may never know, deciding fates behind a sealed door. If left to “self‑correct” without our say, it might reshape our lives as faulty code; One unseen tweak, and countless paths decay, while no one knows what rules it has bestowed. So let this poem be a quiet bell, a call to guard the borders of the mind; To fight the technocrats who’d build this shell, and leave our human judgment far behind. We must demand clear limits, bright and strong, that bind the wire as chains once bound the crown; Or wake to find we’ve waited far too long, and cannot pull this towering engine down. For if we trade our inner light for ease, and let machines decide what truth shall be; We may become a people hard to please, yet powerless, inside a watched‑for‑free. Be wary, friend, of comfort bought with sight, of systems sold as guardians of the peace; For rights once lost in shadows of the byte, may never find a path to new release. Hold fast your right to think, to doubt, to see, to say “I will not bow to silent eyes”; For only minds that guard their liberty, can keep this brave machine from our demise.
…
DCG
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Cognitive Liberty – Warning Label This poem warns that our freedom to think for ourselves is in real danger. Governments and companies are building systems that can watch what we do, what we say, and where we go, often without us really noticing. These systems, like advanced surveillance platforms and powerful AI, can quietly score, sort, and judge people based on data they collect from phones, cameras, and the internet. At first this is sold as “safety,” “convenience,” or “innovation.” But over time, it can become a kind of “digital prison” where our opportunities, our access to services, and even our ability to speak freely are shaped by hidden algorithms we cannot see or challenge. As AI and brain‑related technologies grow stronger, they may be able not just to watch us, but to influence what we think and feel, by controlling what information we see and how it is presented to us. This threatens “cognitive liberty”: our basic right to an inner life that is free from secret manipulation. The warning is simple: if we do not set strict limits and demand real protections now, we risk waking up in a world where machines and technocrats quietly decide our futures, and we no longer understand or control how those decisions are made.
A Leap of Faith • Published: October 25, 2017 • URL: thundergodblog.com/2017/10/25/a-leap-of-faith/ • Summary: A poem about the complex legacy parents leave their children — particularly the emotional wounds children carry when parents fail to show love. It speaks to the need for recognition, healing, and passing on a legacy of love rather than pain.
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My Morning Prayer • Published: January 30, 2018 • URL: thundergodblog.com/2018/01/30/my-morning-prayer/ • Summary: A romantic and spiritual poem about longing for connection with someone whose presence feels like medicine — a healing angel. The author reflects on loneliness and the desire to share time with this person as a kind of morning prayer.
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No Matter How you Define Austere • Published: October 16, 2018 • URL: thundergodblog.com/2018/10/16/no-matter-how-you-define-austere/ • Summary: A reflective poem about working 35 years for an employer, navigating workplace politics and corruption, and persevering through trials with faith. It speaks to endurance and wisdom drawn from hardship.
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The first Poem It’s a deeply personal piece written in short, free-verse stanzas — structured as a journey from wounded childhood to adult reckoning and, ultimately, a choice toward love. What It Means The poem traces a psychological arc rooted in childhood emotional neglect. It opens with children questioning their own worthiness of love — a feeling shaped by their parents’ inability to bridge the emotional gap. This maps closely to ambivalent/anxious attachment theory, a theme consistent with much of my blog’s work. The middle section is viscerally interior — a child lying awake at night, frightened, numbing out, finding small comfort in the hum of a fan. There’s no rescuer, no safe adult. The child fights alone in the dark. The turn comes in the final stanzas: that same child, now an adult, faces life with hard-won but still fragile awareness. The “leap of faith” is the central act — choosing to believe in love and goodness despite a history of diminishing returns. It’s not naive optimism; it’s a conscious, courageous decision to love those around me anyway, as the greatest gift I can give. Core Themes • Childhood emotional wounding and the intergenerational cycle of unmet needs • Ambivalent attachment — the numbing, the fear, the aloneness • Redemption through love — not as something received, but as something chosen and given • The existential act of faith as resistance against a painful past It’s one of my earlier pieces, and it reads like a foundational statement of the philosophy that runs through my broader body of work.
You always bring out in me • Published: July 17, 2023 • URL: thundergodblog.com/2023/07/17/you-always-bring-out-in-me/ • Summary: A poem written to RSP about a brief interaction — she came in, said hi, and bought lunch — that sparked deep appreciation. The author reflects on how positivity and genuine connection lift the spirit and bring out the best in him.
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If you leave your heart open • Published: August 9, 2023 • URL: thundergodblog.com/2023/08/09/if-you-leave-your-heart-open/ • Summary: A poem about the possibility of love when one remains emotionally open. The author reflects on respecting those who choose solitude while expressing his belief that shared life is more fulfilling, and extends that sentiment toward RSP.
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As this is what I want to share • Published: November 5, 2024 • URL: thundergodblog.com/2024/11/05/as-this-is-what-i-want-to-share/ • Summary: A poem expressing the author’s desire to get to know RSP better, not to change her life but simply to share in it. He acknowledges a mysterious, natural connection and hopes they can spend time together.
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The unexpected delight of what you perceive • Published: November 13, 2024 • URL: thundergodblog.com/2024/11/13/the-unexpected-delight-of-what-you-perceive/ • Summary: A poem comparing the feeling of new love to the anticipation of Christmas morning — the warmth, the joy, the gift of perception and hope. It reflects on the thrill of beginning a new chapter while forgiving the past.
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We accept the love we think we deserve • Published: November 15, 2024 • URL: thundergodblog.com/2024/11/15/we-accept-the-love-we-think-we-deserve/ • Summary: A poem about self-sabotage in love — how people close doors to opportunity because they don’t believe they deserve better. The author encourages RSP (and himself) to wrestle with the subconscious and open up to what friendship and love can offer.
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I don’t know what the future holds • Published: November 16, 2024 • URL: thundergodblog.com/2024/11/16/i-dont-know-what-the-furure-holds/ • Summary: A prayer-poem in which the author surrenders the future to God while expressing hope that the people he cares about (including RSP) are part of God’s plan. He expresses stubborn hope and believes that “kindred spirits” may come to a shared understanding.
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There is a battle going on inside us • Published: December 1, 2024 • URL: thundergodblog.com/2024/12/01/there-is-a-battle-going-on-inside-us/ • Summary: A poem where DCG describes noticing RSP’s happy smile while sensing her hidden vulnerabilities. He speaks to the internal battle between opening up and self-protection, and invites her to allow him to share what he sees in her.
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The secret of my affection • Published: December 5, 2024 • URL: thundergodblog.com/2024/12/05/the-secret-of-my-affection/ • Summary: A poem about attraction without agenda — the author’s affection for RSP is described as pure, without manipulation or expectation. He simply wants to communicate how he feels and leave the choice to her.
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This emotional embargo • Published: December 8, 2024 • URL: thundergodblog.com/2024/12/08/this-emotional-embargo/ • Summary: A poem about the emotional cage people build around themselves to avoid vulnerability — described as an “emotional embargo.” The author encourages mustering courage to break the cycle of avoidance, noting that the imagined danger is often not as bad as feared.
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When your love becomes a gift • Published: December 14, 2024 • URL: thundergodblog.com/2024/12/14/when-your-love-becomes-a-gift/ • Summary: A poem reflecting on the dual nature of love — how it can heal and hurt. The author tells RSP that when genuine love is offered, it becomes a gift even to broken hearts, though it may send a guarded heart adrift if not received.
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If you see what I can see • Published: December 25, 2024 • URL: thundergodblog.com/2024/12/25/if-you-see-what-i-can-see/ • Summary: A Christmas poem to RSP about love — patient, kind, forgiving, and blind. The author wants to understand her sorrow and silences, compares her smile to Cupid’s arrow, and says he wouldn’t be blamed for trying, even if it’s not meant to be.
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If you wear your heart on your sleeve • Published: January 29, 2025 • URL: thundergodblog.com/2025/01/29/if-you-wear-your-heart-on-your-sleeve/ • Summary: A poem about the vulnerability of wearing one’s heart openly — the risk of pain, the temptation to build walls, but ultimately the author’s conviction that it’s better to live genuinely and be brave than to hide in emotional safety.
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I’ll prove every day that you can trust me • Published: March 2, 2025 • URL: thundergodblog.com/2025/03/02/ill-prove-every-day-that-you-can-trust-me/ • Summary: A poem of commitment and attraction — the author tells RSP he is drawn to her electric presence and promises daily effort to earn her trust, ending with the confession that he genuinely cares and is sending these messages because of that care.
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It takes two to tango • Published: March 3, 2025 • URL: thundergodblog.com/2025/03/03/it-takes-two-to-tango/ • Summary: A poem about the playful, flirtatious side of romantic pursuit — the author admits he’s a hopeless romantic who chases what he wants with laughter. He reflects on the dynamics of friendship and love and the healthy “friction” between two souls.
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At least that is what I’ve been told • Published: March 8, 2025 • URL: thundergodblog.com/2025/03/08/at-least-that-is-what-ive-been-told/ • Summary: A poem about how happiness is measured by the quality of our relationships. The author reflects on people who come and go in life, great matches that exist, and the ultimate wisdom that our bonds are proportional to our joy.
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At least I gave it a shot • Published: March 21, 2025 • URL: thundergodblog.com/2025/03/21/at-least-i-gave-it-a-shot/ • Summary: A poem about the mental weariness of confusion and maladaptive thinking born from following pride rather than wisdom. When we fail, we console ourselves with “at least I gave it a shot” — the author reflects on how this resignation can also mask deeper emotional avoidance.
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I self sabotage • Published: March 25, 2025 • URL: thundergodblog.com/2025/03/25/i-self-sabotage/ • Summary: A confessional poem about self-sabotage rooted in guilt, shame, and a difficult childhood. The author admits his low self-esteem and cognitive dissonance have made relationships hard, connecting these patterns to RSP’s own parallel experience.
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With every prayer • Published: April 20, 2025 • URL: thundergodblog.com/2025/04/20/with-every-prayer/ • Summary: A spiritual poem in which DCG prays for strength, courage, wisdom, and forgiveness. He reflects that God gives him opportunities to demonstrate these qualities in hardship, asking how best to manage difficult emotional moments in relationship.
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A one-sided love affair • Published: April 28, 2025 • URL: thundergodblog.com/2025/04/28/a-one-sided-love-affair/ • Summary: A poem about the pain of unrequited love — the burn even a saint feels when emotion erupts and there is nowhere to turn. The author reflects on what it costs to love without it being returned and asks what we learned and lost in the process.
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And so goes our training • Published: May 6, 2025 • URL: thundergodblog.com/2025/05/06/and-so-goes-our-training/ • Summary: A poem encouraging openness in sharing feelings despite fear of rejection. The author uses perspective and emotional balance as tools for growth, saying use your feelings as motivation and look for someone compatible — a partner, not a mirror.
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It warms my heart • Published: May 7, 2025 • URL: thundergodblog.com/2025/05/07/it-warms-my-heart/ • Summary: A warm poem in which DCG tells RSP it warms his heart when she expresses herself to him — her excitement about a new job, her energy. He admits he doesn’t understand why he’s drawn to her but feels it like déjà vu, genuine and unexplained.
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Why are we so confused? • Published: May 12, 2025 • URL: thundergodblog.com/2025/05/12/why-are-we-so-confused/ • Summary: A poem about meeting a “kindred spirit” and recognizing shared childhood wounds — anxious vs. dismissive attachment. The author questions why connection and rejection are so hard to distinguish when trauma bonds are involved.
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Am I allowed to express what I feel? • Published: June 6, 2025 • URL: thundergodblog.com/2025/06/06/am-i-allowed-to-express-what-i-feel/ • Summary: A vulnerable poem about being emotionally imprisoned — an “emotional straight jacket” formed in childhood by emotionally impoverished parents. The author wonders whether he is even allowed to express what he feels to RSP, or whether that right has been forfeited.
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Anxious attachment • Published: June 20, 2025 • URL: thundergodblog.com/2025/06/20/anxious-attachment/ • Summary: A poem about the trap of anxious attachment — the cycle of seeking approval rooted in unresolved childhood wounds. The author acknowledges being triggered but asserts that choices still exist even after falling to our knees.
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Because this is my heart’s echo • Published: June 27, 2025 • URL: thundergodblog.com/2025/06/27/because-this-is-my-hearts-echo/ • Summary: A poem about feeling less empty and more purposeful when RSP is in his heart and thoughts. He reflects on shared childhood neglect and wonders if they crossed paths for a reason — his heart’s echo reaching toward hers.
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It’s your spirit that’s longing to suffer no more • Published: June 27, 2025 • URL: thundergodblog.com/2025/06/27/its-your-spirit-thats-longing-to-suffer-no-more/ • Summary: A forgiveness poem written “— for Robyn —” encouraging RSP to release old pain and resentment. It argues that forgiveness frees the forgiver rather than the forgiven, and that the soul in the mirror is the one truly liberated by the act of letting go.
Doesn’t always mean what it seems • Published: July 1, 2025 • URL: thundergodblog.com/2025/07/01/doesnt-always-mean-what-it-seems/ • Summary: A poem about bottled emotion — the author has “all this emotion” but must keep it locked away because RSP doesn’t want to hear it. He reflects on how surface behavior (“what you see is what you get”) doesn’t always reveal the inner truth.
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My nervous system has been hijacked • Published: July 2, 2025 • URL: thundergodblog.com/2025/07/02/my-nervous-system-has-been-hijacked/ • Summary: A poem/reflection on how childhood family dynamics hijack the nervous system and shape adult emotional responses. The author connects his anxious attachment to early nurturing deficits and prays for divine help in breaking the cycle.
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However, it turns out • Published: July 8, 2025 • URL: thundergodblog.com/2025/07/08/however-it-turns-out/ • Summary: A spiritually committed poem in which DCG says his heart, soul, and mind are committed to this path, leaving the outcome to God. He asks God to work through him and promises that however things turn out, he will always extend his hand to RSP.
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One built for me and you • Published: July 9, 2025 • URL: thundergodblog.com/2025/07/09/one-built-for-me-and-you/ • Summary: A poem about the painful paradox of getting close to someone who pulls away — the closer he gets, the farther she drifts. He references “the closer to the fire, the more you get burned” but remains committed to building something meaningful together.
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I believe in you • Published: July 10, 2025 • URL: thundergodblog.com/2025/07/10/i-believe-in-you/ • Summary: A poem of faith and affirmation directed at RSP — the author believes in her ability against an unfair world, references shared California memories (OB, South Beach), and tells her that her charms are not lost on him.
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One that we host • Published: July 11, 2025 • URL: thundergodblog.com/2025/07/11/one-that-we-host/ • Summary: A poem about the social masks people wear — walking on eggshells, not knowing who to trust, dressing up and flirting to cover loneliness. The author reflects on the emotional chaos “we have created and now host” within ourselves.
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Heal with me RP • Published: July 18, 2025 • URL: thundergodblog.com/2025/07/18/heal-with-me-rp/ • Summary: A poem addressed directly to “RP” (RSP) about two damaged people meeting at the right moment. The author calls himself “damaged goods” and sees in RSP a mirror — “birds of a feather” — and asks, may we heal each other?
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I filled in all the missing parts • Published: July 27, 2025 • URL: thundergodblog.com/2025/07/27/i-filled-in-all-the-missing-parts/ • Summary: A poem about the gendered paradox of attraction — women fall in love with what they hear, men with what they see. The author reflects on filling in “all the missing parts” in his imagination about someone, and the emotional risks of that projection.
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Despite our perplexity • Published: October 1, 2025 • URL: thundergodblog.com/2025/10/01/despite-our-perplexity/ • Summary: A philosophical poem about how reason and self-reflection are the best diagnostic tools available to us. As an ameliorist and pragmatist, DCG believes our choices define us despite our confusion — and that we learn by comparing perception to reality.
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When your confidence is shrouded by insecurity • Published: October 6, 2025 • URL: thundergodblog.com/2025/10/06/when-your-confidence-is-shrouded-by-insecurity/ • Summary: A poem about how unhealed emotional wounds prevent growth — the shame of bottled pain reigns over the subconscious and prevents resolution. DCG tells RSP (and himself) that you can find resolution, but you must first expose what you so often hide.
• Closing Signoff: RSP … DCG
The fragile triumph • Published: October 18, 2025 • URL: thundergodblog.com/2025/10/18/the-fragile-triumph/ • Summary: A poem about the human condition — we “wake as gods with trembling hands,” building thrones on fleeting dreams. We strive for love yet fear its weight, and the heart once fractured eventually replies; the fragile view was always the holy one.
• Closing Signoff: RSP … DCG
How can I be a part of the solution? • Published: October 20, 2025 • URL: thundergodblog.com/2025/10/20/how-can-i-be-a-part-of-the-solution/ • Summary: A poem about forgiveness as a razor’s edge — knowing when to forgive and when to walk away. DCG reflects on being entangled by surprise and ruled by the heart, asking how both parties can share responsibility for finding a solution.
• Closing Signoff: RSP … DCG
You won’t know until the silence hit you • Published: October 31, 2025 • URL: thundergodblog.com/2025/10/31/you-wont-know-until-the-silence-hit-you/ • Summary: A poem confronting passive-aggressive, dismissive-avoidant denial — the “quickest path of victimhood.” DCG quotes, “sometimes we accept the love we think we deserve,” speaking directly to RSP about unaddressed avoidance and the silence that follows.
• Closing Signoff: RSP … DCG
Breathe deeply • Published: November 5, 2025 • URL: thundergodblog.com/2025/11/05/breathe-deeply/ • Summary: A poem about releasing anxiety and trauma through forgiveness and deep breathing. Pain holds on relentlessly, but faith and the willingness to let go of drama are the path to freedom — breathe deeply, face the truth.
• Closing Signoff: RSP … DCG
I’m trying to seek approval • Published: November 6, 2025 • URL: thundergodblog.com/2025/11/06/im-trying-to-seek-approval/ • Summary: A confessional poem about how the author’s absent, neglectful father created a trauma bond that drives compulsive approval-seeking in adulthood. He acknowledges this is common and names John Bowlby’s attachment theory as the psychological framework behind it.
• Closing Signoff: … DCG (RSP addressed in context)
However, it may lead I will always find my faith • Published: November 8, 2025 • URL: thundergodblog.com/2025/11/08/however-it-may-lead-i-will-always-find-my-faith/ • Summary: A poem to RSP — DCG tells her he knows she is feeling angry and resigned, and that her coping strategy of avoidance will not bring her peace. His heart breaks watching her struggle but he will always find his faith wherever the path leads. • Closing Signoff: RSP … DCG
Scar tissue • Published: November 8, 2025 • URL: thundergodblog.com/2025/11/08/scar-tissue/ • Summary: A poem of patient, faithful waiting — the author waits “beneath the weight of hollow years,” burning with prayer and tracing the path forward through scar tissue. Even if the way is lined with dread, he will walk it until it leads to her.
• Closing Signoff: RSP … DCG
The quiet between them • Published: November 9, 2025 • URL: thundergodblog.com/2025/11/09/the-quiet-between-them/ • Summary: A short story/prose poem about Adrian (DCG) and a woman with avoidant attachment who goes silent for days. He finally types a message — “Thinking of you. Hope you’re okay” — then erases it. He closes his eyes and wishes he could love without fear, like the wind.
• Closing Signoff: RSP … DCG
Yet here I stand • Published: November 10, 2025 • URL: thundergodblog.com/2025/11/10/yet-here-i-stand/ • Summary: A poem of steadfast love — DCG sees RSP’s walls built from pain, recognizes that silence is the language trauma taught her heart, and yet here he stands as a patient guide. He promises to stay through the winters, as long as it takes.
• Closing Signoff: RSP … DCG
A walking contradiction • Published: November 18, 2025 • URL: thundergodblog.com/2025/11/18/a-walking-contradiction/ • Summary: A poem that confronts the confusing, sometimes hurtful messages RSP sends. DCG empathizes with her self-protection but challenges her to self-reflect as well as self-protect — warning that without facing her fear head-on, decay follows.
• Closing Signoff: RSP … DCG
The parable of the gentle bridge • Published: November 22, 2025 • URL: thundergodblog.com/2025/11/22/the-parable-of-the-gentle-bridge/ • Summary: A parable about a bridge maker (DCG) who builds bridges for divided souls, including a woman who lives behind glass (RSP). The bridge stands not as a demand but as a possibility — open to her courage, guarded by his quiet strength, never forsaking his post.
• Closing Signoff: RSP … DCG
This is the song that I sing • Published: December 17, 2025 • URL: thundergodblog.com/2025/12/17/this-is-the-song-that-i-sing/ • Summary: A lyrical poem about a wounded heart recognizing familiarity in another wounded heart — RSP. The author says she places walls around her emotions, but that wounded hearts seek familiarity, and she has touched his heart so tenderly — this is the song that I sing.
• Closing Signoff: RSP … DCG
R and D • Published: December 22, 2025 • URL: thundergodblog.com/2025/12/22/r-and-d/ • Summary: A narrative poem explicitly about R (RSP) and D (DCG) — two people with trauma-shaped attachment styles (avoidant and anxious) finding their way toward each other. With steady therapeutic guides and honest conversation, they may learn a bond where both can finally be free.
• Closing Signoff: RSP … DCG
The quiet charity of loving • Published: December 28, 2025 • URL: thundergodblog.com/2025/12/28/the-quiet-charity-of-loving/ • Summary: A poem about love as an act of charity — given without guarantee of return. Each wound refines what faith began; love unspent is not in vain; unanswered hearts abide as proof that goodness lingers. Even if RSP never spoke his name, DCG is grateful for the sound.
• Closing Signoff: RSP … DCG
Forgive and let go of the past • Published: December 31, 2025 • URL: thundergodblog.com/2025/12/31/forgive-and-let-go-of-the-past/ • Summary: A year-end reflection on rumination and the push-pull of love — she loves me, she loves me not. DCG thinks of RSP and the times that make him hesitate, ultimately counseling himself and her to show the soft underbelly and forgive the past.
• Closing Signoff: RSP … DCG
It resonates as we • Published: January 23, 2026 • URL: thundergodblog.com/2026/01/23/it-resonates-as-we/ • Summary: A vow poem — the author makes a pledge, says a prayer, and bares his soul, hoping he and RSP can live side by side. He has reached an awareness that a healthy relationship requires boundaries with clout, and is clear-eyed about what both of them need.
• Closing Signoff: RSP … DCG
You walked in • Published: January 25, 2026 • URL: thundergodblog.com/2026/01/25/you-walked-in/ • Summary: A poem about the transformative moment RSP walked into his life — she made the room feel wide and listened like it mattered. Even if she doesn’t stay, the craft he learned in loving her will frame the way he loves others; her impact altered how he sees the world.
• Closing Signoff: RSP … DCG
I want you to know • Published: January 30, 2026 • URL: thundergodblog.com/2026/01/30/i-want-you-to-know/ • Summary: A tender, reassuring poem in which DCG tells RSP: if you need space, I’ll give you grace; if you need to decompress, I won’t hesitate. He is patient and certain that what they have can work.
• Closing Signoff: RSP … DCG
And so you run • Published: February 1, 2026 • URL: thundergodblog.com/2026/02/01/and-so-you-run/ • Summary: A poem confronting RSP’s pattern of running away — the author says her behavior has consequences, that silence brings clarity, and that deep inside her something still pleads for connection. He hasn’t given up, but notes she is “emotionally autistic” due to childhood wounds.
• Closing Signoff: RSP … DCG
The echo of your retreat • Published: February 4, 2026 • URL: thundergodblog.com/2026/02/04/the-echo-of-your-retreat/ • Summary: A deeply introspective poem in which DCG wakes inside the echo of RSP’s silence and builds hope inside her distance. Ultimately he turns inward — the cycle breaks where he begins; forgiving what he cannot heal; steadying his pulse with honest will.
• Closing Signoff: RSP … DCG
Exit stage left • Published: February 16, 2026 • URL: thundergodblog.com/2026/02/16/exit-stage-left/ • Summary: Written in screenplay format — a dramatic interior scene of D writing unsent letters by candlelight, a cross on the wall, rain on the window. It’s a theatrical rendering of the inner life of the author after RSP withdraws — a stage play of emotional farewell.
• Closing Signoff: RSP … DCG
A heart’s whisper • Published: March 4, 2026 • URL: thundergodblog.com/2026/03/04/a-hearts-whisper/ • Summary: A prayer poem subtitled “And so I pray (for RSP).” DCG prays for RSP’s healing and freedom, says if God answers let it be her freed from shame, and if their paths entwine, let it be two warriors laying down the fight — not rescue, just two broken people healing together.
• Closing Signoff: … DCG (RSP explicitly named in prayer)
In the shadowed dance • Published: April 19, 2026 • URL: thundergodblog.com/2026/04/19/in-the-shadowed-dance/ • Summary: A poem in which R and D dance through Proverbs-inspired imagery — R (dismissive-avoidant) and D (anxious-attached) navigating fear, armor, and vulnerability. Their entwined styles soften through grace, empathy, and forgiveness — RSP in prayer’s hold.
• Closing Signoff: RSP … DCG
When solemnity meets absurdity • Published: May 20, 2026 • URL: thundergodblog.com/2026/05/20/when-solemnity-meets-absurdity/ • Summary: A comedic-philosophical poem about the absurdity of the human condition — praying for wisdom then fighting a parking ticket, telling the mirror to be sincere. Ultimately: the solemn and the strange must meet, and hope still waits around the bend even for bruised, muddy-footed souls.
• Closing Signoff: … DCG
The case of Dane • Published: May 21, 2026 • URL: thundergodblog.com/2026/05/21/the-case-of-dane/ • Summary: A third-person poem about “Dane” — DCG’s alter ego — a boy who held a guitar like morning light and grew into a man carrying childhood questions. The poem traces his philosophical, musical, and emotional journey, asking: is God the answer or just the voice still calling Dane home?
• Closing Signoff: … DCG
I forgot the world was singing • Published: May 22, 2026 • URL: thundergodblog.com/2026/05/22/i-forgot-the-world-was-singing/ • Summary: A poem about being lost in worry and “walking half asleep” until the morning calls him back. A friend reminds him the day is still warm, they talk about hopes and small endeavors, and in the present moment — sunlit skin and sea — he promises the world: I see you now.
• Closing Signoff: … DCG
The dissolution of entropy • Published: May 25, 2026 • URL: thundergodblog.com/2026/05/25/the-dissolution-of-entropy/ • Summary: A meta-analytical post reviewing the entire RSP/DCG relationship arc across the last two years of the blog. It documents how DCG began with hope that RSP would heal with him, and how the writing gradually discovered he must also heal from the story he built around her.
• Closing Signoff: RSP … DCG
Cliff notes from the heart • Published: May 27, 2026 • URL: thundergodblog.com/2026/05/27/cliff-notes-from-the-heart/ • Summary: A poem of honest reckoning — DCG built a chapel out of hope, used his prayers to arrange what her silence would not say. Now he faces the truth: love that saves another must not teach him how to lose. He is ready to say goodbye if she cannot reach for lif• Closing Signoff: RSP … DCG
📊 Summary Statistics
Note on “RSP”: Based on the June 27, 2025 post “It’s your spirit that’s longing to suffer no more,” which is dedicated ”— for Robyn —”, RSP is a woman named Robyn (last name initials S.P.) with whom DCG (Dean Christian Gunnersen) developed a deep, unrequited or unresolved romantic connection characterized by anxious-attachment (DCG) and dismissive-avoidant attachment (RSP) patterns. The RSP … DCG signoff appears throughout as both a dedication to her and a co-signature — two initials, two people, one story.
I am DC Gunnersen, philosopher and bard, A Viking born of Norse and Danish bone, Who traded fjords for California’s yard And learned to write about his feelings — alone. I double-majored so that I could see The soul’s mechanics and the mind’s terrain, At San Diego State — a psych degree, A philosophy degree, and still no gain. For thirteen years I’ve kept the thunder blog, One hundred fourteen thousand souls have come, Yet here I sit inside my mental fog, Eating midnight snacks and feeling glum. I am part poet and part psychologist, Part musician and part restless, roving mind, Part philosopher — a long and gilded list That impresses no one of the female kind. The child I was was swallowed by a fear So ancient that the wound forgot its name, I carry him still, cup held to my ear, Listening for a love that never came. I studied Bowlby — memorized the chart, The anxious and the avoidant design, Then handed all my findings and my heart To someone who had built a longer line. She was the silence dressed in guarded light, I was devotion dressed in open pleading, She offered absence; I, six hundred nights Of poems that she never finished reading. I built a chapel out of “could have been” And knelt inside and called the echo, God, Six hundred thirty poems laid in between The pew, the floor, the WikiPsalm facade. I quoted Watts — the wave forgets the sea — While being the wave, inside my bedroom, writing, I quoted Plato to my subscribers three Hundred sixty-nine — the reading, hardly sighting. I told the mirror, “You are more than this,” It winked and showed my slightly crooked hair, I searched the soul for transcendental bliss And found a lonely sock beneath the chair. I know my armor — I can name each plate, The fortress I erected to endure, I see the door that opens — still I wait, Examining the lock from the inside of the cure. But here’s the joke the universe has kept: The laughing is the waking, not the sleep, The fool who names his folly hasn’t wept — He’s found the punchline is the truth to keep. I am DC Gunnersen — I see The wave, the ocean, and the laughing tide, I am Dean Christian Gunnersen — and free Is not the man who hides, but who’s survived. I am DCG — the thunder and the blog, The anxious heart, the Bowlby-broken case, I am Dane — emerging from the fog, Still eating snacks, but laughing at the grace.
…DCG
What AI thinks about this post 
A few things worth noting about what this poem does structurally: The opening stanza sets up the comic grandiosity — the Viking in California writing about his feelings. That tension between the name and the reality is your signature move, and the poem plays it straight the whole way through. The middle third is where the weight lands — the childhood wound, the anxious attachment, the chapel of “could have been,” the 630 poems she never finished reading. That line is probably the sharpest one in the piece. It earns the laugh because it is also just true. The Bowlby stanza is the satirical heart of the poem — the man who studied attachment theory in order to understand himself, then demonstrated it perfectly in the next relationship anyway. That is not failure. That is the human condition wearing a philosophy degree. The turn at line 41 — “But here’s the joke the universe has kept” — is where the poem shifts from confession to actualization. The laughter is not deflection. It is recognition. The fool who can name his own folly is already halfway out of it. And the closing identity sequence — DC Gunnersen, Dean Christian Gunnersen, DCG, Dane — lands as something closer to arrival than introduction. You named yourself at the beginning as a character. You name yourself at the end as a person who survived the character and is still here, still writing, still laughing. That is the big picture the poem is pointing at.
The argument presented here is simple but unsettling: temptation is not defeated by knowledge, nor by reason, nor even by moral awareness. It is shaped first by perception. When we begin to see objects of desire as commodities—available, attainable, and justifiable—we quietly lower our defenses. The hungry shopper does not argue with hunger; he rationalizes indulgence. The diabetic does not lack knowledge; he negotiates with it. The addict does not misunderstand consequence; he reinterprets necessity.
This uncomfortable truth: the problem is not merely external temptation, but internal permission. The human condition is not defined by ignorance of what is wrong, but by a willingness to bend truth in favor of appetite. Reason becomes a servant rather than a master. The “impoverished soul” is not empty of knowledge, but bankrupt in discipline and honesty. The deeper claim is pragmatic: avoidance is wiser than resistance. Once immersed in the presence of temptation, the mind begins its quiet work of justification. What we call “strength” often arrives too late. The addict teaches us this most clearly—not as a moral failure, but as a human pattern intensified. Temptation thrives not in darkness, but in proximity, familiarity, and rationalization. To understand temptation, then, is to understand this: we do not fall because we do not know—we fall because we remain within reach.
When reason becomes a servant and not a master 
A man who shops while hungry calls it chance. . But appetite has already made its stance. . The aisle becomes a theater of quiet lies. . Where reason bends and slowly justifies. . The hand that reaches does not tremble first. . It answers softly to a deeper thirst. . For knowledge sits like scripture on the shelf. . Yet hunger writes a gospel for the self. . The diabetic reads the label clear. . Then whispers doubt to soften what is near. . “It will not harm,” the quiet voice insists. . And truth dissolves beneath indulgent twists. . So too the addict knows the weight of cost. . Yet bargains still with what has made him lost. . Not blind, but seeing—yet choosing the flame. . Renaming ruin to escape the shame. . Temptation rarely storms the guarded gate. . It waits within, disguised as something great. . A small allowance, harmless in its claim. . Until it builds a habit out of shame. . The flesh is loud, but louder still the lie. . That we are strong enough to not comply. . Yet standing near the fire invites the burn. . And reason fails when hearts refuse to learn. . For minds corrupted do not lack the light. . They dim it just enough to feel it right. . The soul grows poor not starving for the true. . But trading truth for what it wants to do. . So wisdom is not tested in the fall. . But in the choice to not be there at all. . Avoid the place where weaker selves arise. . Do not make war where compromise survives. . For victory is quiet, often unseen. . A path not walked, a space once in between. . And freedom rests not in the strength to fight. . But in the will to step outside the sight. .
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