thundergodblog

The New Vocabulary They sold the frightened public softer names, Then called the silence “safety for us all,” While profit wore a white and blameless face, And conscience stood outside the marble hall.

A: I don’t understand something.

The Door That Saved Me There is a door that broke me when it closed, A path I would have followed to my end, I begged the lock, I bargained, I opposed, Then knelt to grief the way one greets a friend.

The student asked the master with a tremor in his voice, “If kindness is my compass, why does life still bruise the good?”

The House That Taught Me Silence The house I learned in did not teach me love, it taught me how to read a slamming door.

The Chapters in Your Hand You did not choose the room where you were shaped, The tone, the silence, or the door that closed.

The Unturning Page Imagine reading a book with no way to turn back the page, each sentence final, each margin closing before the eye, the plot a river running only forward toward its age, and every chapter ending with the small word — goodbye.

Life Hack #11 Every day, you have two choices: to focus on what’s wrong, or to embrace what’s right.

 Life hack #10 The Water Never Changed A bottle of water costs a dollar at the corner store.

The Painted Porch Still Stands After Zeno, Epictetus, Marcus Aurelius — and the therapists who inherited their fire In Athens once a shipwrecked man walked into the unknown, and found beneath a painted porch a truth he came to teach — that suffering is not