Say the true thing without sharpening it. Love makes language clean.

 There is a way to tell the truth that doesn’t cut, even when the truth is strong. It begins deeper than the throat. Love lives there, warm and electrical, a frequency more than a feeling. When I let language rise through that field, words lose their edge and gain weight. They land as clarity instead of collision. I don’t perform honesty; I embody it. The room can feel the difference. So can I.

I thought thunder meant volume. Sometimes it does. More often, thunder is the resonance that follows a clean strike of lightning—light first, then sound. The light is the recognition inside me: this is what is real. The sound is how it travels: measured, inevitable, awake. When I speak from the golden heart, I choose sentences that tell the whole truth without theatrics. Boundaries read as devotion to what matters. Apologies mean repair instead of appeasement. Praise lands as nourishment, not sugar. The heart is not a weakness here; it is guidance. And when I am guided, I do not need a blade.

What true sentence could you say today without adding sharpness?