Triggers live not in the world, but in the walls
of our own making—
built from echoes,
bricked with yesterday’s tears,
mortared with fear disguised as memory.
They are not real—
not truly.
Only felt.
And what is felt…
can be unmade.
We are the architects.
We hold the trowel.
We choose:
to let the past seep through the cracks…
or to seal them—
with breath, with stillness,
with the quiet courage of now.
Bad experiences?
Yes—they leave footprints.
But not on the ground.
On the eyes of those who know the path.
A glance, a pause, a flinch—
they see the ghost of your storm.
They don’t see you.
Not the you who is here.
Not the you who is breathing.
Not the you who is choosing.
Lack of discernment?
It is the ghost haunting the present.
It is dressing today’s sun in yesterday’s rain.
It is pouring old wounds into new cups,
then crying because the water tastes bitter.
It is mistaking the echo for the voice,
the shadow for the body,
the memory for the moment.
But discernment—
ah, discernment—
is the quiet oracle within.
It does not scream.
It does not replay.
It simply knows:
This is now.
That was then.
And I am not bound by either.
It knows when to let go.
When to speak.
When to walk away.
When to stay—
not because the past demands it,
but because the present calls with clarity.
Discernment is not passive.
It is holy action.
It is the hand that lifts the veil
and says:
This is truth.
This is mine.
And I will not confuse it with pain dressed as prophecy.
And when you walk this path—
not as a victim of echoes,
but as the sovereign of your silence—
you do not escape the storm.
You become the calm
that holds it.
The sea of triggers?
It drowns only those who forget
they can rise above it.
But you?
You are the shore.
Still.
Deep.
Unshaken.
And in that stillness—
not in the noise of what was—
you find
the bliss
you never lost.
You only forgot to remember:
Never wound and dress today’s angel
with the greedy costume
of yesterday’s sinner.
And to look deep inside yourself
for the beauty and love
you’ve been seeking.
You are in control.
Does the sword, though forged in fire, turn from its essence?
Does the free bird trust the tree’s branch or its wings?
Does today’s partner pay for yesterday’s narcissist’s sins?
And so you breathe.
And so you choose.
And so you choose how to love.
And so you live.