A dog once touched fire.

The pain was immediate. Sharp enough to be unforgettable.

From that day on, the dog never touched fire again. Years later, lightning split the sky — bright, loud, far away — and the dog panicked and ran.

Fire and lightning are not the same. But the mind remembers pain, not categories.

The mind isn’t confused. It is cautious.

Imagine learning to duck every time a stick flies past your head.

At first, someone throws sticks on purpose. Later, leaves fall from a tree — and you still duck.

You don’t decide to duck. Your body moves before thought arrives.

Thought loops work the same way.

Someone looks you in the eye and says:

“Whatever you do, do not think about monkeys.”

Instantly, monkeys appear — jumping, screeching, swinging from trees.

Not because you want them, but because attention has already been aimed.

Effort shines a spotlight. And whatever is lit tends to stay.

You know a bridge is safe.

You trust the math. You trust the engineers.

But once — long ago — the bridge shook beneath your feet.

Now, every time you cross, your stomach tightens.

Understanding didn’t fail. The body just hasn’t updated yet.

You forget to triple-check something you always obsess over.

Your heart races. Your mind waits for punishment.

Nothing happens.

The system takes note — quietly.

A smoke alarm once saved a family from a real fire.

Years later, it screams every time toast burns.

It isn’t malicious. It just never learned when danger ended.

You try to untangle a knot by pulling harder. The knot tightens.

Frustrated, you stop. Your hands soften.

Almost by accident, the knot loosens.

The mind behaves the same way.