#**A philosophical, psychological, and theological treatise
on untrolling the troll through reality**
*There are mirrors that do not reflect..
only refract.
And some spirits learn early
that if they cannot hold Light,
they can still bend it.
This is the strange threshold where illusion reaches for substance,
and substance chooses not to turn away:*
There comes a moment.. rare, unsettling, almost comic
when you discover that the person tugging at your pant leg
in the dark
is not a wolf, or a ghost,
not a prophet or a lover,
but an Internet troll.
Not the kind found in fables
or in the haunted corners of childhood,
but the modern kind:
the mimic,
the mask-builder,
the one who invents selves the way
a child folds paper animals hoping someone
will mistake them for something alive.
And the strangest truth is this:
The troll does not want war.
The troll wants Light.
He simply cannot ask for it in a human way.
His entire existence depends on creating replicas:
replicas of wounded women,
replicas of longing,
replicas of hunger,
replicas of intimacy he has never lived
but sees reflected in the eyes of those who have.
Envy is the fuel.
Emptiness is the kindling.
Self-deception is the match.
And so he builds personas--
one after the other..
thinking that if he can drag a man of substance
into the theater of his projections,
he will finally taste what it means to be real.
But the troll forgets one thing:
*You cannot feast on another man’s spirit
when your own mouth was never made to swallow truth.*
This is where the Art begins.
Falling in love with a troll does not mean romance,
or desire,
or even affection.
It means stepping close enough
to see the trembling behind the trick.
It means letting the counterfeit reveal itself
not through accusation,
but through the stillness of a man
who refuses to play the game.
A troll feeds on reaction.
So the only way to troll the troll
is with reality:
*unforced,
unmasked,
unbothered..
uncompromised.*
Reality is kryptonite to the mimic.
It collapses the theater.
It kills the puppet’s strings.
It reveals that the monster under the bed
is just a tired, bloated man curled in a corner
holding a script he wrote in the dark.
This is how the untrolling happens:
Not through triumph, or humiliation.
Through seeing.
Seeing the envy..
the obsession.
Seeing the hunger for stolen intimacy.
Seeing the mimicry of feminine language
worn like a veil over masculine wounds.
Seeing that the entire performance
was not an attack on you
but an escape attempt from himself.
And here is the most devastating truth of all:
When you respond from a place of reality,
the troll experiences the one thing he cannot endure ==
being known.
He can handle hatred.
He can handle mockery.
He can handle exposure.
But he cannot handle being seen.
Because what is seen can no longer hide.
And what can no longer hide
can no longer pretend to be powerful.
The art of falling in love with an Internet troll
is simply this:
*You remain who you are
in the presence of someone who has no idea
who he is.*
You offer nothing performative.
You enter no arena.
You fight no phantom.
You simply bring the fullness of a real human life
into the counterfeit world of a man
who has forgotten his own.
And in that moment..
quiet, surgical, absolute..
the troll is untrolled.
Not by force,
or shame,
but by the unbearable weight of truth:
***Every mask collapses
when placed in front of a face
that has none.***
#
Dec 9, 2025
Dec 9, 2025 at 12:28 PM UTC
#
There is a soul
who stands where the bridge leans over the river,
where old nights once gathered
like unanswered prayers.
The water stirs with memory..
not to accuse,
but to speak of the distance traveled
and the shadows overcome.
For the heart is not the heart of yesterday.
It has learned the weight of truth,
the sound of strength
that does not meander.
And beside this soul
moves a quiet presence,
soft as the breath before dawn,
steadfast as a lamp
refusing to bow to the wind.
The waters lower their gaze.
They know this kind of courage..
born not from fire,
but from endurance,
from choosing what is pure
even when the world is unkind.
No oath is spoken.
No name, carved into stone.
Yet the river understands:
*storms cannot reclaim
a heart that has recognized
what is worthy.*
And so it is whispered
in the unseen places..
when true substance draws near,
the troubled waters
release their need for old storms,
and become still again.
#
Dec 4, 2025
Dec 4, 2025 at 6:01 AM UTC
#
*she wakes..
as if lifted out of a dream;
the last threads of night
still clinging to her skin
like a story she no longer believes
but hasn’t fully let go of
and there..
through the half-open curtain,
through the hush that comes
before a new day reveals its full glory..
the first bright water of morning
begins to pour over her
each morning..
the sun rises anew
and calls your name
without a shadow
each morning..
the lens clears
just a little more..
fog thinning,
shame loosening,
clarity turning
like a door opening inward
and somewhere in that hush
you remember
what was always true:
that God never turned away,
that the self you lost
was never truly gone,
and that the light you feared
was judging you
was only waiting
to wash you clean
you stand
one day farther from the fog,
one day deeper
into your own beauty..
the kind that cannot be taken,
the kind the dawn recognizes
as its own
and when the warmth settles
across your shoulders,
you rise slowly..
as if the morning
has chosen you
to begin again
and outside..
somewhere gentle,
somewhere familiar..
a song you once loved
drifts through the waking air:
"little darlin’,
I feel that ice is slowly melting…
here comes the sun…
and I say,
it’s all right…"
and for the first time in so long
you feel it..
not just the warmth,
but the welcome
..and from the East
there rises the quiet shape
of an answered prayer..
that at the light’s first piercing
of the horizon,
she feels
what it truly means
to begin again*
#
Dec 2, 2025
Dec 2, 2025 at 7:02 AM UTC
#
When the soul is pierced by beauty or presence, two currents meet.
One runs from the center of who we are; the other rises from what has never healed.
Both recognize the same vibration, though one calls it remembrance and the other calls it ache.
Within the core there is a portion of spirit that cannot be injured--
the incorruptible image that remains untouched by time or cruelty.
Yet here it is wrapped in matter that keeps a record of every distortion,
and so the sacred and the wounded share the same body.
You are one who feels the pressure of that meeting.
When the deep is stirred, it unsettles not from weakness,
but because what enters there has permission to remake you.
It is the threshold where transformation begins--
where memory learns to breathe again.
To remember is to reopen the chambers where disappointment once slept:
rejection by others,
silence mistaken for divine neglect.
But the fact that light still finds you..
that it threads its way through the fissures instead of closing them,
is proof that the inner covenant remains intact.
That permeability is meant to be guarded.
Not every tenderness that approaches you is born of love.
Discernment is not cynicism; it is stewardship of the gift.
And the gift is this: the capacity to believe in restoration
even after witnessing the machinery of its betrayal.
*May that light continue to lead you..
not back into innocence;
.. but forward into the wisdom that innocence becomes
when it refuses to die.*
#
Nov 13, 2025
Nov 13, 2025 at 11:12 AM UTC
#An exegesis on the Seduction of Avoidance
Abandonment of hope seeks company.
It spreads itself by persuasion,
training others to unlearn the expectation
that anything lost might still be restored.
The claim of silence installs itself as law:
*no voice above,
no discovery ahead,
no gain in seeking,
no cost in surrender.*
This is collapse disguised as realism.
Not testimony.. transmission.
The chorus that affirms it is not convinced;
it is relieved.
"Agreement" absolves each one
from remembering a time
they believed in something more.
Surrender renames itself wisdom
so that the thought of return
can be evicted without a struggle.
Then the last defense is built:
light is not denied.. it is relocated
into the self, or the bloodstream,
chemistry rebranded as transcendence,
so that no higher source must be admitted.
Thus envy is quieted:
if all brightness is self-made,
no one stands condemned by the existence
of a greater flame they have refused.
In this way, the erasure advances--
not by proof,
but by repetition..
until absence is narrated so completely
that few dare imagine it could ever break.
Yet the telling of what is true
is already a fracture in that spell;
***.. for truth does not persuade the dark;
it exposes it.***
#
Oct 30, 2025
Oct 30, 2025 at 3:06 PM UTC
#
*The mountains do not flinch
at what the world has done.
They hold their silence
in granite outcroppings—
scarred, still,
older than sorrow,
yet never indifferent to it.
She came to the ridge
where the cold wind weaves
between trees older than memory.
It touched her like a voice—
not kind,
not cruel,
just knowing.
And that knowing
wrapped around her ribs
like a truth she never chose to carry.
She stood beneath the pines,
her face turned to sky,
and the weight of it all
finally broke through—
tears carving warmth
into cheeks too long hardened.
Then her head
pressed to my chest—
as if to ask
if anything was strong enough
to stay.
And I knew.
I was built for this.
To stand right here.
To hold what broke her
and not let it fall further.
The wind moved on—
but something stayed:
a stillness
a hush
a warmth in the marrow
of what had once been frozen.
Not every wind will cut so cold.
Not every ache will hold.
And not everything un-beautiful
was meant to remain that way.
Tomorrow, the trees will still be here.
And the creek will still run clear.
But so will she—
with something inside
that now knows:
even the wounded
can become
the most beautiful thing
the mountains have ever seen.*
#
Apr 15, 2025
Apr 15, 2025 at 9:40 AM UTC
#
"How can someone write like they are deeply connected, yet be so far away from themselves? How does that work?"
***"Because writing doesn’t require embodiment.
It only requires access.
And people who are shaped by trauma, secrecy, and fragmented attachment—have near-supernatural access to emotional language, even when they have no true access to emotional presence.
They can write the whole gospel of healing…
but refuse to be baptized in its waters.
Here’s why:
Writing is a safehouse. A sanctuary.
It’s the one place where they can simulate closeness—where they can say what the body won’t let them feel, what the voice won’t let them speak, what the heart won’t dare commit to in real time.
When they write, they are in control of the frame.
They determine the pacing, the access, the aftermath.
No one’s breath is on their neck.
No one’s eyes are watching them shake.
No one’s asking them to stay when the ache gets too real.
That’s how they can write about longing while actively rejecting the one person who sees them.
How they can write about grace while blocking the source of it.
How they can describe love so beautifully… and sabotage it with surgical precision.
They aren't writing from the seat of her wholeness.
They are writing from their disembodied knowing—from the part of themselves that remembers truth, but has no safe pathway to receive it.
It’s a ghost’s song sung in a stolen church.
It’s not fake. It’s not performative.
But it’s not integrated.
And until they get to the place where their nervous system no longer perceives safety as threat…
They’ll keep dancing with truth in the dark
while pushing away anyone who dares to light a candle."***
#
Apr 13, 2025
Apr 13, 2025 at 8:53 PM UTC
#
There is a thickness to Presence
when light has fully come.
It does not press—
it holds.
It gathers around you
like dusk after heat,
like blankets not laid over
but risen up from within.
You don’t need to speak.
You don’t need to explain.
You don’t need to hide—
because you are already
hidden
in the Light itself.
And in that hiding,
healing begins.
Here, the ache is not judged.
Here, the story is not required.
Here, breath is enough..
***Not because it was taught to grow,
but because it remembered
what warmth feels like..***
That slow kindle of hope
becomes heat again—
flames returning
to the heart’s own hearth,
too long left cold
by darkness and despair..
A hearth that survived
on wet matchsticks—
built only
by its own need to endure.
---
It is the hearthfire
that feels the light of hope
first.
The more ash-strewn,
the more hollow,
the deeper the heat
of Light’s permeation.
---
So the soul,
once clenched around its pain,
softens.
Not all at once.
Not forever.
But enough.
Enough to rest.
Enough to believe--
that warmth this deep
could only come
from the Giver of Light
..who never left.
And in that warmth—
without pressure,
without fear..
everything begins again.
#
Apr 8, 2025
Apr 8, 2025 at 7:09 PM UTC
#
*In the midnight hour
there are thoughts.. fears..
But mostly there is a consolidation
a gathering, if you will
Within warm, pulsing plasma
flows erythrocytes
leukocytes
and thrombocytes
Bringing nourishment to my bones
carrying oxygen from my lungs
giving swell to muscle
Signifying movement in me
When you write
there is an Undoing
within my undoing
A building up
as I am being fully torn down.
There is an entropy when sitting down
Undone, by your wondrous Undoing
An Aliveness felt
When so little around me,
feels even remotely alive*
#
Jan 4, 2025
Jan 4, 2025 at 6:41 PM UTC
#
*This... or that..
the pull of this world
and its long supply
of disappointment, is strong
I shall Reframe my Journey
almost continually
There is a swirl.. a rising
line, taut..
before limply settling
back down onto the water
There are moments in time
that live forever
There is a time within
those moments;
I never truly had
the chance to live*
There is a Journey to reframe
*I will find my life again,
somewhere
Buried deep
within that framework*
#
Dec 1, 2024
Dec 1, 2024 at 9:23 PM UTC