Right and wrong feel obvious.
Self-evident. Natural.
Like gravity, or hunger.
But they’re not.
They’re scaffolding. Old maps drawn by frightened hands.
Useful, once. But not the terrain.
We treat morality like coordinates — fixed and universal.
But those coordinates have shifted with every empire, every god, every generation.
If we used to burn witches and now celebrate them on Halloween,
what does that say about the compass we swear by?
Maybe it was never a compass. Just a mirror.
Morality reflects the system it grows in.
The economy. The rituals. The threats we fear most.
That’s why it always feels so convincing — and always looks absurd in hindsight.
Still, we cling to it.
Because judgment is easier than ambiguity.
Because “right” feels safer than “I don’t know.”
Because when we moralize, we don’t have to feel the chaos underneath.
But what if we stopped asking, “Is this good?”
And started asking, “What system made this make sense?”
Not to excuse. Not to flatten. But to see.
To see how “bad” behavior often grows in malnourished soil.
To see how harm repeats itself through structure, not character.
To see that outrage might feel like clarity — but rarely leads to understanding.
If morality is just a story —
who benefits from the version you’re living in?
And if you let go of the story,
what else becomes visible?
Maybe not better answers.
But better questions.
Cringevault (n.)
The mental chamber where past moral posturing goes to die.
“Every now and then, the cringevault creaks open.”
Normfog (n.)
The invisible haze that makes destructive systems feel reasonable.
“It wasn’t malice — just a thick normfog.”
Righteousloop (n.)
The addictive cycle of judgment that rewards itself with more certainty.
“Social media is engineered for righteousloops.”
If this hit home — write me. I’m listening.