The Trauma Army
She carved “Fuck Trump” into her leg. She took a picture and posted it on Instagram. She was rewarded for her self-mutilation. She was rewarded for turning her calf into a billboard with a man’s name on it. The Dr. Ford experiment had nothing to do with Kavanaugh. The democrats already knew they lacked the votes. Dr. Ford was placed on camera as a trauma thumper in the desert. She was calling victims of injustice like some gigantic mythic sandworm from the dunes. The voice of Dr. Ford sounded that way for a purpose. You can activate a trauma army with a simple story or facial expression. This technique is far from obscure. It’s not accurate to relegate it to the files of MKUltra. We are all manchurian voters responsive to tribal pressure and a centralized media. None of us are in touch with our bodies as much as we could be. If so we would be living in a world with zero lies.
A trauma army has been mustered in this country for centuries. We were recruited psychologically with our racism; spiritually with the shame of sin; and physically through body mutilation. Our victimization makes us zombies in the inevitable selfish spiral of our own pain. Pain makes us selfish. This condition is intentional. We are kept in outdoor barracks on a psychological prison planet. The energy of news is fear with a cliffhanger. We turn our tongues into bayonets for survival. They are constantly being sharpened by false flags activated from moving pictures. We’ve been trained to divide ourselves into teams of thought, color and gender. We are a mosh pit in chaotic formation directed by an unseen conductor high on the cliff. He wears a mask to hide his voodoo. The spiral snake in your back is his now as he takes command of your internal dynamo. You are straddled high inside your head with your back tucked against the high-and-dry dome of your skull. You dare not place your toes below your ears into the murky waters of your own blood. You’ve been told it’s filled with hungry alligators. They will bite you for sinking back into the hot spring. You feel safe in your pretty skull castle waiting for a king to exterminate the floating dinosaurs.
The sun is reading a magazine as it drifts down sky’s river. Tiny fish bite the legs of two boys in the shallow end of a lakeside swim park. Minnows munch like finger-sized piranha pecking the boys legs with tickles. They are laughing at themselves for trying not to flinch. The first mutilation is circumcision. This is a trauma disguised as sanitation to install a belief we were born unclean. The psychology of dirty is a powerful weapon. It keeps us out of the tips of our fingers and toes as we retreat from these extremities. We are shame in clothing. We are dirty as bugs. But bugs are cleaner than rain. We wipe scum on each other with our minds. We enter a trance of normalcy as we walk down the halls enlisted in basic training. After graduation we rank ourselves by victimization and fall under the shape of the pyramid. We are trained to fight from two short blows of a whistle.
There is no secret technology to mind control. It is a biological installation of energy, frequency and vibration. Your bloody soup is empty of reptiles. Sink your awareness deep and break the pockets of dry flour as you blend them into the warm batter of your cake. Place your electric roots deep down into your arm pockets like a Christmas sweater and tug yourself to the very end of each finger. Wrap warm roots around your spine connecting every organ. Raise the twisting kudzu of consciousness around the trachea and collarbones. Let the magnetic current surround your throat as orange soft wires thread themselves inside your vocal chords and tongue. Fill the arched ceiling of your mouth with electric vines that cling to your capillaries rebuilding the caverns of your mouth. This space is your king’s chamber. In one breath pluck your vocal chords and resonate your name across your lips like a runway takeoff. Understand the greatest sin ever committed is the one we do to ourselves. Never leave your pyramid. You will only end up in a bigger one fighting for rank in a trauma army that mutilates themselves for pixelated hearts and street cred.
Original source: https://www.jtrue.com/blog/the-trauma-army