ethics

Listening without Armer

~ DC ~ Leave a comment

Listening Without Armor”

He spoke as though the air were glass.
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Each word a tremor I let pass.
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I watched the pulse behind his jaw.
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The trembling logic of his flaw.
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He launched his truths like sharpened stone.
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I answered softly, still, alone.
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“Perhaps,” I said, “we both are wrong.”
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He paused—then asked if right was strong.
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The irony made silence speak.
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No scoreboard stood, no need to seek.
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I noticed how his voice grew still.
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The storm obeyed a gentler will.
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He said, “You never seem to fight.”
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I said, “I try to see the light.”
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“The one inside your words,” I smiled.
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“It flickers fierce, then turns to mild.”
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He looked at me, confused, yet bare.
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“That’s not how most would answer there.”
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I shrugged—a leaf accepts the gust.
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“Defenses fade when met with trust.”
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We sat while meaning rearranged.
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His thoughts untied, his tone estranged.
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The room grew wide, like mind unbound.
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Two fragile egos lost their ground.
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He laughed, unsure of what to feel.
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I laughed as well; it made us real.
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Humor cooled the war of need.
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Each wound became a tender seed.
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In learning not to fix or win,
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We heard the peace that starts within.
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He said, “You listen like a prayer.”
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I said, “I’m just not fighting air.”
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And something in his stance took rest.
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The tension smiled; it knew what’s best.
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He finally said, “You really see.”
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I said, “That’s all that’s asked of me.”

Epilogue — “Listening Without Armor”

It’s strange how quickly languagea battlefield. One moment, we speak to be understood; the next, we speak to defend the boundaries of self. When people’s shadows take the microphone, communication stops being about truth—it becomes about territory. Yet the observer, present in the moment, isn’t pulled into that gravity. They see how fear disguises itself as certainty, how pain often hides behind sharp diction or misplaced logic.

A conversation held without armor doesn’t mean silence or surrender. It means choosing not to be flammable when the other burns. It means responding rather than reacting; watching tone soften when no one feeds the fire. Humor helps—because laughter rearranges the emotional landscape, making the absurd visible without shame. It’s not mockery; it’s mercy.

In the end, the goal isn’t to win the argument, but to stay human inside it. True communication requires the willingness to let another’s storm pass through you without letting it take shape inside you. When that happens, something alchemical unfolds: two people find that neither needed to be right to be connected—they only needed to be real.

…

DCG

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We speak in circles

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We speak in circles to appear profound.
Our logic wobbles, yet we stand our ground.
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We color words in ideological hue.
Then swear the tint itself makes truth come through.
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We point at straw men, watch them burn with ease.
Declare our virtue on the social breeze.
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A sound bite dances, dressed in formal wear.
It struts through headlines, basking in hot air.
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What’s substance now, if phrased in clever jest?
The form is worshiped, meaning dispossessed.
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Ad hominem, our daily bread of spite.
A tasty feast where reason loses sight.
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We sculpt our arguments with plastic grace.
A smile can hide the cracks beneath the face.
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Emotion rules — the crowd will cheer or boo.
For truth is dull; they want a bolder view.
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We weaponize the clause, distort the clause.
Applause! Applause! We never mind the cause.
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Our graphs and charts perform a masquerade.
They bow to bias, empirically unfrayed.
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False syllogisms waltz across the floor.
They lead the blind to claim they see much more.
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We duel with data mined from murky swamps.
Each swamp, of course, is where belief still romps.
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Oh sophist, patron saint of every spin.
You teach us how to lose and call it win.
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We say “both sides” while hiding in the smoke.
The middle burns — the audience the joke.
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We love our tribal logos, neat and bright.
They glow so much we never see the night.
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And through it all, intent becomes disguise.
We sell mistruths, then buy our own supplies.
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But under rhetoric’s perfumed deceit,
There lies a hunger simple and discreet.
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To speak in clarity — to shape a thought.
Free from deceit, unbent, unsold, unbought.
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Let language serve to forge the lucid flame.
To name the world, not gild it with acclaim.
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For truth requires no costume, mask, or fight.
It stands in humble syllables of light.
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And should we seek to truly solve, not sway,
We’ll drop the tricks — and plainly say our say.

…

DCG

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A solution revisited 

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The post “The solution of humanity” wrestles with the limits of human wisdom, the wounds of the past, and the failure of purely human projects to heal the soul, before finally resting in Christ as the only sufficient answer to our fractured condition. The poem below echoes that narrative arc: beginning with a wide search through world philosophies and faiths, then moving toward a distinctly Christian claim about grace, forgiveness, and the cross as the true quintessence of our humanity.


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I knelt before the sutras, drinking silence from their well. .
The Dhammapada whispered: “Guard your mind, it fashions heaven, it fashions hell.” .
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I traced the Tao in rivers, where the yielding waters wind. .
Lao Tzu sang of nameless Way, of empty bowls that feed the mind. .
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I bowed with old Confucius, where propriety patrols desire. .
He spoke of ordered families, of ritual that tempers fire. .
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I walked with dusty sadhus where the Ganges stains the feet. .
They murmured of samsara’s wheel, of breaking from repeat. .
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I sat with Zen companions, watching thoughts like passing rain. .
Koans cracked my logic’s shell, yet could not rinse my shame and pain. .
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These giants lit the mountains, each a lantern in the night. .
Still some cavern in my marrow shivered far from any light. .
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For every path said, “Discipline,” and every sage said, “Try.” .
Yet my will, a tired animal, only knew how to comply or to defy. .
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Reason built its scaffolds, stacked hypotheses like stone. .
But proof could not absolve me for the harm I’d done alone. .
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Some problems yield to data, to equations crisp and clean. .
But guilt is not a theorem, and grief is not a faulty gene. .
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I argued evolution with the fierce, design with trembling friends. .
Yet neither camp could teach my fractured heart how any story ends. .
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The quintessential question haunted every night I couldn’t sleep. .
Not “What is true in abstract?” but “Who can reach me when I’m deep?” .
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My childhood was a fracture, love withheld and love misused. .
A narcissistic mirror where my fledgling trust was bruised. .
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Neglect became my liturgy; I worshiped every fleeting nod. .
Attachment wired my nervous system tighter than a rod. .
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I sought in crowds a savior made of status, touch, and praise. .
But idols built of aching need devoured me in subtle ways. .
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I preached forgiveness to myself, a law I could not keep. .
“Let go, move on, be strong,” I said, then sobbed myself to sleep. .
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I tried to earn absolution, to deserve another start. .
But merit is a cruel god when you have a trembling heart. .
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Then the scandal of a cross cut straight across my schemes. .
Not as mythic consolation, but as judgment of my dreams. .
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A God who enters trauma, not to sanitize the scar. .
Who hangs between the guilty thieves and calls them from afar. .
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“Father, forgive,” was uttered where the nails made muscle tear. .
Not after we improved ourselves, but while we mocked Him there. .
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If there is any solution to this species, wild and torn. .
It will not rise from self-help shelves or from the newest creed reborn. .
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It comes as undeservedness, an offense to every pride. .
The Holy kneels in blood and dust and stands up on my side. .
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Grace is not a concept but a Person with a wound. .
The Logos wearing human skin, in borrowed grave entombed. .
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Resurrection is no metaphor for “try again once more.” .
It is the shattering of final loss, the opening of a door. .
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In Christ, the moral ledger is not erased by lie. .
It’s paid in full by One who chose to feel my failure die. .
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Buddha showed the craving flame, the Tao its gentle flow. .
Christ walked straight into my hatred and refused to let me go. .
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Confucius framed our duties, and the sages mapped the mind. .
But only pierced hands reached the child that history left behind. .
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The solution of humanity is not that we advance. .
It’s that the Author joins the story and is broken in our trance. .
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Forgiveness is not weakness, nor denial dressed as peace. .
It is cruciform surrender where the cycles slowly cease. .
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To love the unlovable is the line I cannot cross. .
Until I see myself there too, forgiven from that cross. .
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Then enemy and victim blur beneath that rugged sign. .
I stand as both, yet strangely held in mercy’s grand design. .
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The quintessential attribute our arguments misname. .
Is not our clever reason, but a Love that bears our blame. .
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So here I lay my systems down, my proof, my pride, my role. .
And rest in One solution: a wounded God who makes a whole. .

…

DCG

Portrait of the sophist 

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Reason wears a tie and polished shoes. .

It tap‑dances on a premise it did not choose. .

The speaker clears his throat and strokes his chin. .
He stacks three shaky “truths” and calls that a win. .

“All experts say” is how his sermon starts. .
By “experts” he just means his frightened parts. .

He cites a study no one’s ever read. .
Then crowns his timid hunch as ironclad instead. .

“If A, then B; if B, then surely C.” .
He hides the missing letters where you cannot see. .

He waves a chart like some enchanted wand. .
The numbers all are cherry‑picked and fond. .

He points at you and says your doubt is sin. .
The fallacy is holy when it helps him win. .

He builds a house of logic out of fear. .
Then rents it to the masses for a cheer. .

“Some wolves are bad, so all these dogs must bite.” .
The crowd nods hard; the rhyme makes wrong feel right. .

He juggles terms until they change their name. .
Then swears the rules of reason stayed the same. .

He calls you “fool” for asking what he means. .
Then hides behind big words and canned routines. .

When facts rebel, he shifts the guiding goal. .
The scoreboard moves to keep him in control. .

He quotes a sage he never really read. .
The meme becomes the scripture in his head. .

He paints his tribe as pure, the rest as flawed. .
Then claims this narrow circle speaks for God. .

He cries “Ad hominem!” when cornered tight. .
But smears your name at lunch and sleeps just right. .

Each claim is like a ladder made of smoke. .
He climbs it to the sky and calls it “woke.” .

The joke is that his audience is him. .
He argues with his mirror till it’s dim. .

Yet sometimes in the silence after spin. .
A tiny doubt taps lightly from within. .

He sees one crack along his perfect wall. .
And wonders if that “therefore” fooled him most of all. .

If reason’s just a mask his fear designed. .
What else could grow beneath a humbler mind? .

Perhaps the sharpest wisdom in this fight. .
Is laughing when our “logic” props our spite. .

For every false syllogism we defend. .
We push real understanding round the bend. .

So let the tidy arguments collapse. .
And feel the awkward truth between the gaps. .

Admit you do not know as much as claimed. .
And let that small confession stand unnamed. .

Then reason loses armor, keeps its heart. .
No longer just a trick to play the smart. .

We’ll still be wrong, but less in love with schemes. .
More free to trade our proofs for living dreams. .

If someone sells you certainty for free. .
Check twice which fragile story you agree to be. .

…

DCG

My soul compass 

~ DC ~ Leave a comment

Lost in the turning, I wander the haze.
The heart keeps seeking a brighter blaze.
The compass trembles, unsure where to steer.
The voice inside whispers, “You’re still near.”
Shadows of failure cling to the skin.
Yet dawn reminds me I’m born to begin.
Faith is fragile, a flicker in bone.
Still, grace leans close — I am not alone.
I walk through tempests with tethered eyes.
Truth unveils how the broken rise.
Love feels distant, its outline torn.
But scars are the proof of a soul reborn.
Attachment wavers, the self unsure.
Yet grace repairs what grief can’t cure.
The mind replays what the heart conceals.
But prayer unmasks what pain reveals.
I falter often, lost in despair.
Then Christ reminds me to cast my care.
The map I drew has burned away.
Still, light breaks through the ash and clay.
Each aching step rewrites my name.
The Lord restores the will to flame.
I gather lessons from every fall.
For bruises can be our greatest call.
Confusion whispers, “You’ve lost your place.”
Yet mercy meets me, face to face.
Bowlby spoke of longing’s chain.
God reshapes it through healed pain.
The insecure heart learns to trust.
When love is rooted beyond the dust.
The anxious soul yearns for hold and keep.
But heaven’s arms embrace so deep.
Each wound a teacher, each loss a friend.
They guide the soul toward its true end.
The chaos swirls, and yet I stand.
For faith was never a steady land.
It’s forged in fire, tested by cost.
Found in surrender, never lost.
The world instructs through loss and strain.
No tear is wasted, no effort vain.
Confusion yields what pride denies.
That wisdom blooms where the ego dies.
The compass spins, yet still aligns.
With truths the heart in silence finds.
We learn by falling, rise by grace.
Reborn, renewed, we find our place.
Every storm becomes a scroll to read.
A script of growth our hearts still need.
The path to light is rough and long.
But the weary soul grows strong through wrong.
So let the tempests bruise and bend.
For they are means, not the end.
In every loss, a sacred clue.
The world refines what is most true.
The compass turns — the heart obeys.
And faith becomes the soul’s new blaze.
We walk through shadow, anchored in day.
For God Himself lights up our way.

…

DCG

The ripple effect

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The Ripple Effect” argues that every small act, attitude, and decision sends out waves into other people’s lives and into society, shaping far more than we see on the surface. In simple terms, the post says that how you speak, how you love, and how you ignore or care for others all spread outward like ripples in a pond, eventually returning to you in the kind of world you end up living in. The heart of the message is moral and existential: you cannot control the whole ocean, but you are responsible for the ripples your own stone creates, and over time those ripples help build either a more compassionate world or a more wounded one.

The stone you throw is smaller than your hand. .
Yet circles run for miles beneath the skin. .
A whisper leaves your mouth like drifting sand. .
It builds a dune of shame or grace within. .
You think your anger dies when doors are slammed. .
But echoes bloom in children down the hall. .
A single careless phrase, “You’re weak, you’re damned.” .
Becomes the script a soul reads as it falls. .
The night you turned away from someone’s tears. .
Seemed trivial, a tired, forgetful hour. .
Yet loneliness grew thick across their years. .
And spread like ivy through their trust in power. .
The kindness you once offered half‑awake. .
A seat, a smile, a patient listening ear. .
Became the unseen bridge someone could take. .
To walk back from the ledge of secret fear. .
We live as if our moments stay in place. .
But time is water, nothing stays contained. .
Each choice dissolves, then gathers into space. .
As weather in another person’s brain. .
You scroll and judge, you mock behind a screen. .
The ripples cross a fragile, breaking heart. .
Or you send one true message, calm and clean. .
That says, “You still belong, you get a start.” .
A parent hides their grief behind a joke. .
The child learns early not to show their pain. .
The pattern travels outward, spoke by spoke. .
Till no one knows why love feels laced with shame. .
But also, when a wounded one forgives. .
The ancient tide of cruelty is shocked. .
A different kind of current starts to live. .
A door long rusted through is gently knocked. .
We are not gods who rule the storm and sea. .
We cannot mend the world with one grand act. .
But every quiet “yes” to empathy. .
Rewrites the terms of one inherited pact. .
The heart you soften softens someone else. .
They go back home and speak with gentler eyes. .
Their mercy grazes wounds you’ve never felt. .
And lifts a stranger’s head toward different skies. .
The pain you choose to finally feel and name. .
No longer leaks in ways you can’t control. .
You break the chain that always shifted blame. .
And send a cleaner river through your soul. .
So when you feel invisible and small. .
Remember how the circles leave the stone. .
Your life is not a closed and private wall. .
Your smallest love is shaping worlds unknown. .
Stand in the pond and own the waves you make. .
Let every breath be honest, fierce, and kind. .
For every tender risk you dare to take. .
Becomes the tide that heals the human mind. .

…

DCG

The exoneration of regret 

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Poem: The Exoneration of Regret

  1. I stare into the wreckage of my then,
  2. The echoes answer softly, “Here we met.”
  3. I catalog the harm I did back when,
  4. Each memory stamped with one dark word: “Regret.”
  5. I thought that flogging thought would make me clean,
  6. As if self‑hate could pay another’s debt.
  7. I wore my shame like armor, hard and mean,
  8. Yet every plate was forged from unpaid fret.
  9. I knelt before the altar of “Too late,”
  10. And prayed to be condemned and not forget.
  11. I called it holy never to feel great,
  12. As if joy proved I’d learned nothing from the upset.
  13. But sorrow, when it listens, learns to bend,
  14. It does not need a noose around its neck.
  15. The point is not to never find an end,
  16. But let remorse turn forward, not back‑check.
  17. I hear a Voice that does not flinch at crime,
  18. It names the wound and will not soft‑correct.
  19. Yet after truth has finished taking time,
  20. It opens up a road I can’t expect.
  21. “You cannot change the script of what you did,”
  22. It says, “but you can change what follows yet.”
  23. “You are not only what your worst self hid,
  24. You are the one who now can make a new beget.”
  25. So I release the courtroom in my head,
  26. Where I was judge, accused, and harsh cadet.
  27. I trade the endless trial for bread instead,
  28. And feed the part of me I used to vet.
  29. I visit those I’ve harmed with open eyes,
  30. Not asking them to cancel every debt.
  31. I give them space to answer or revise,
  32. While owning what I broke without reset.
  33. In learning how to grieve without self‑hate,
  34. I learn that punishment is not the same as sweat.
  35. The work is walking different through the gate,
  36. Not kneeling in the ashes just to fret.
  37. So let the gavel fall on shame’s old throne,
  38. Let mercy write the terms of my new bet.
  39. I carry what I’ve done, but not alone,
  40. For Love has signed The Exoneration of Regret.

…

DCG

The quiet charity of loving

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The Quiet Charity of Loving”


I loved you as the dawn loves light,
Though darkness asked me to remain.
The sky was empty, but so bright,
It taught me joy can live with pain.
To give one’s heart and ask no prize,
Is worship whispered to the air.
For even when no answer flies,
The act itself becomes a prayer.
We love because to cease is death,
Our souls are orphaned when they hide.
Each longing shapes our mortal breath,
Each silence builds the place we bide.
You were the mirror I could hold,
Reflecting mercy into view.
My hands were empty, yet consoled,
For love became the work I do.
Not all who give must then be fed,
Some sow the wheat they’ll never taste.
But kindness lingers when it’s bled,
And sanctifies what time erased.
To want, yet will the other free,
To ache, yet hope their wings ascend—
That is the quiet mastery,
The art of one who loves as friend.
For hearts grow full when not confined,
When grace transcends the claim of name.
The truest lover is resigned
To bless the loss, not curse the flame.
Each wound refines what faith began,
Each tear instructs the heart to see.
We love not just for flesh or span,
But for who we may choose to be.
So if you never spoke my name,
Still, I am grateful for the sound.
For love unspent is not in vain,
It plants its heaven in the ground.
And from that soil, ghosts bloom wide—
Petals of patience, light, and care.
Unanswered hearts may yet abide
As proof that goodness lingers there.

RSP

…

DCG

Screenshot

A good upbringing never goes out of style 

~ DC ~ Leave a comment

Reciprocity isn’t always as important

With a mature understanding of your emotional intelligence

The development of our communication

Our ability to find the relevance

How many of us have misunderstanding?

Expectations, , miscalculations or just wrong?

Those without sin cast the first stone

Yet knowing some people, you may still want to run and go Long

The sentiment of “taking the high road“

Should not only be a reaction to the other person‘s behavior

I would rather argue

Preemptively  strive for a high road that you can savor

As for appearance, if nature has been really, really good to you

Then the “city girls just seem to find out early how to open doors with just a smile“

But on the inside, they might be missing

A good upbringing never goes out of style

…

DCG

Do you live on borrowed time? 

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Do you live on borrowed time?

Do you let life just pass you by?

Do you live in an existential bewilderment?

You’re so choked up you  can’t even cry.

We see our lives pass

Never found your purpose?

Rich or poor you barely just get by

Don’t think about what is important

The only thing left to do is die

Right before our eyes

Did you take notice?

Or did you find yourself surprised?

Do we ask the right questions?

Do we empathize?

Do we follow nonsensical thoughts? 

Do we self hypnotize?

If you have oxytocin

But no purpose in your life to guide

You will go where the wind blows

Never knowing how to escape the imposing riptide

Kierkegaard

Netzche

Heidegger

Jasper‘s

Sattre

Camus

If “God is dead“ and “we are thrown into the world“

Then “life is absurd“ – and what can you do

Sometimes the more questions we ask, the more we find the more we don’t know

If we follow the paradigm of rational thought 

Nothing more than t our pride is shown

Borrowing breath we never own,
Measuring life by the hours that fly,
Building faith out of the unknown.

Haunted by clocks that do not sleep,


Our worth unmeasured by their rust,


Our promise deeper than what we keep.

If time is a loan, then let us spend,
Not hoard each hour in trembling fear,


But burn our truth until the end,


And hold the fleeting moment near.

For even gods once learned to die,


Their heavens cracked with mortal flame,


Yet mortals learn to testify
Through loss, through love, through sacred shame.

We live as thieves of passing breath,


Yet our crime is holy, bold, divine,


For in defying death with death,


We prove that life itself will shine.

So let the borrowed moments fade,


And leave their ache upon the bone,


For meaning isn’t found — it’s made,


Carved fierce from what was never known.

…

DCG

Prologue
This poem wrestles with a deep fear many of us share but rarely voice — the sense that life is temporary, and that time isn’t ours to keep. It asks: if everything we love is fleeting, what gives our lives meaning? It challenges the reader to rise up from despair and make something sacred out of the short time we’re given. In other words, it’s about finding purpose in the face of our mortality, not by denying our limits, but by defying them.