#responsability

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Ogni desiderio comporta una responsabilità.

Blame is a fascinating social technology—primitive yet intricate. It’s one of the earliest moral currencies humans invented to manage behavior long before formal laws or written ethics existed.

At its simplest, blame is a signal: “You broke the rules.” But beneath that, it’s a negotiation of responsibility, intention, and consequence. When we blame someone, we’re not just identifying causation (“You did this”)—we’re performing a moral judgment (“You shouldn’t have done this”). It’s an attempt to align the social ledger.

There are several overlapping dynamics at play:

Cognitive – Blame involves counterfactual thinking: imagining what could have happened. “If you hadn’t done X, Y wouldn’t have occurred.” The mind constructs a branching timeline and pins guilt to the node where it diverged.

Emotional – Blame provides relief from chaos. By locating a culprit, we reduce the unbearable randomness of misfortune. It turns suffering into a story with a villain.

Social – Blame maintains group cohesion. Public blame (shaming, punishment, scapegoating) reinforces norms and reaffirms what “we” value. But excessive or misplaced blame corrodes trust.

Moral-psychological – Blame often reveals more about the blamer than the blamed. It reflects our sense of fairness, empathy, and need for control.

What’s especially interesting is that blame and responsibility aren’t identical. You can be responsible without being blamed (say, in a tragic accident), or be blamed without real responsibility (as in scapegoating or political convenience). In that gap lies much of the tension in ethics and justice.

Would you like to look at blame as it functions in individual psychology, or in collective settings—like institutions, politics, or culture?

Isn't a way to avoid responsibility for your own behaviour?

Often, yes—and that’s the paradox. Blame can be a deflection device disguised as moral clarity. When we project blame outward, we’re performing a kind of psychic sleight of hand: If someone else is guilty, I don’t have to examine my own role in the mess.

This mechanism serves a few psychological needs. It preserves self-esteem (“I’m not the problem”), simplifies complexity (“They made me do it”), and maintains a sense of control by creating a clear villain. It’s emotionally efficient, but intellectually lazy.

In evolutionary terms, blame is adaptive for social survival. If you can redirect collective anger away from yourself, you’re less likely to be punished or ostracized. But in mature moral reasoning, that reflex becomes counterproductive—it prevents learning, reconciliation, and genuine accountability.

It’s especially visible in modern group dynamics: politicians blame the “previous administration,” companies blame “market forces,” and individuals blame “the system.” Everyone’s story centers on being acted upon, not acting. The result is moral stagnation: lots of outrage, little repair.

Still, we shouldn’t swing to the opposite extreme of self-blame for everything. The trick is to separate causal responsibility from moral responsibility: we can recognize external influences without surrendering agency.

It raises an intriguing question: is there such a thing as blameless responsibility—a way to own our actions without needing guilt or accusation? That’s a moral frontier worth exploring.

Blame is pretty selfish.

Absolutely—blame often wears selfishness like a badge. At its core, shifting blame is about protecting you: your ego, your social standing, your freedom from consequences. It’s rarely altruistic. Even when it’s wrapped in righteous indignation (“I’m blaming this for your own good”), there’s a self-centered undertone: the blamer wants order, fairness, or vindication for themselves.

That doesn’t mean blame is always destructive. It can signal boundaries, enforce norms, or alert a community to harmful behavior. But the impulse that drives it is usually self-preservation, not empathy. In a sense, blame is a moral mirror: it tells more about the person pointing the finger than the one being pointed at.

The selfishness of blame is why it’s so tricky socially. People respond not just to the “truth” of the accusation, but to the blamer’s perceived motives. That’s why some attempts at blame provoke defensiveness or retaliation—they smell self-interest rather than genuine concern.

It makes you wonder: if we replaced blame with curiosity—asking “how did this happen?” instead of “who’s at fault?”—would our relationships and societies handle mistakes more gracefully?

Expand on this: In a sense, blame is a moral mirror: it tells more about the person pointing the finger than the one being pointed at.

That line cuts deeper than it first appears. When we call blame a “moral mirror,” we’re saying it reflects not the reality of the situation, but the inner landscape of the blamer—their values, fears, biases, and insecurities. The finger points outward, but the reflection is inward.

Consider a few dimensions:

Values and priorities: What someone chooses to blame reveals what they care about. If a manager blames an employee for missing a deadline, it may reflect not just the failure itself, but how much the manager values control, efficiency, or obedience.

Projection of insecurities: People often blame others for traits they dislike in themselves. Someone who fears appearing lazy might harshly criticize others for slacking, projecting their own anxiety outward.

Moral calibration: The act of blaming shows where someone draws ethical lines. Two people witnessing the same event might blame different actors, revealing their divergent sense of fairness, responsibility, or empathy.

Emotional state: Blame is rarely neutral. Anger, fear, or resentment intensifies who and how someone blames. A person quick to blame might be reacting to personal stress or a need for control more than to the objective situation.

Social signaling: Blame is performative. By blaming, we broadcast to the group: “I uphold these standards; I see transgressions.” It’s less about the blamed and more about reinforcing the blamer’s identity and status.

In short, blame is a window into the blamer’s psyche. The one being blamed can often learn more about the person assigning guilt than about themselves. That’s why, in reflective or therapeutic settings, unpacking blame often becomes a tool for self-understanding for the blamer, not the blamed.

If you like, we could explore how this “mirror effect” plays out in collective settings—like politics, culture, or social media—where blame becomes a mass reflection rather than an individual one. It gets really strange and revealing there.

Let's go the strange and revealing route.

Perfect—this is where blame stops being just a personal reflex and becomes a collective hall of mirrors. In large groups—societies, organizations, or online communities—blame multiplies, twists, and amplifies in ways that are often stranger than fiction.

One striking aspect is scapegoating at scale. Communities under stress—economic collapse, political instability, pandemics—often need a target to contain fear and anxiety. The individual blamed is rarely the real cause; instead, they become a projection of collective unease. History is full of examples: witches in early modern Europe, minorities during economic crises, or political opponents during revolutions. The community isn’t just blaming—they’re revealing their insecurities, prejudices, and power anxieties, collectively.

Then there’s meme-ified blame in digital culture. Social media allows instantaneous, amplified moral judgment. One small mistake can spiral into global shaming. The “blame” becomes less about the act itself and more about social signaling: people broadcast their identity, values, and tribal affiliations by joining the blame chorus. The strange part? Often the actual wrongdoing is secondary; the performance of outrage is primary. This is why you can witness mass blame over trivial or misunderstood events—it’s a mirror reflecting the crowd’s anxieties, hierarchies, and desires to belong.

Blame cascades into moral economy. In politics, each side often constructs narratives where all negative outcomes trace back to the other. This isn’t just finger-pointing; it’s an organized, almost aesthetic performance of identity. By blaming a rival party, a group defines itself as virtuous, competent, or rational—even if the reality is messy. Here, the “blame target” becomes a placeholder for everything the group fears or resents in itself.

In these collective settings, blame reveals latent truths about the blamers more than the blamed. What a society obsesses over, punishes, or shames often exposes its deepest anxieties, taboos, and contradictions. The more explosive the blame, the more telling the mirror.

The beauty of orcas 🤍 A mother and her child facing al the cold and wild, endless water. Together. How can some just hunt this and all the other beautys of the Sea?

The beauty of the sea. I wish everyone could feel the harmony of the sea aswell and would stop hunting animals or destroying and stealing from the sea.

The balance of the Sea. Why does noone See this harmony? Or why do they want to destroy it? And not just the animals, everything, nature, our planet. Just for a better, more luxurious life? Or just for profit? Why aren't they recognising that they'll destroy themselfs too? Or at least their children.

Part 1 :)) Contains spoilers for season 2

Free will / Responsability

I was just thinking how, before everything changed in seasons 1 and 2 of Loki, the events on the Sacred Timeline were, so to say, scripted. In He Who Remain's words (though i have to admit it feels weird mentioning him, the man is so LITTLE compared to our Loki); the road was paved.

That's the thing about branches, about the infinity of the vast multiverse. The path isn't paved anymore, no more yellow brick road, every decisions sets you on a new one. Anything can happen. So, if anything can happen, nothing matters? No. If anything can happen, the choices that are made, the paths that are taken, have their own entity. Everyone has a story that they can make different every day. That's what Loki is there for. Rewriting the story. The hard thing to do, the thing that had to be done. And I find that really interesting. If you only believe in Destiny's hand, what are yours there for? Gods don't give humans destiny, because it would be just too easy. Too easy to blame it on fate, rather than take responsability for your actions. And the other way around too, if it all falls on your shoulders, isn't it too much to bear?

That links to burden, the burden of responsability. All "variants" will have the free will, while the God of Stories bears it. for a while. I mean, he won't be there for forever, alone, right? Come on now.

Bittersweet, exceptionally good, but definitely heartbreaking

Yes, I still sob sometimes because a once analyst or jet ski seller from Ohio can't move on from losing / being separated from his favorite person. And that favorite person hearing him from a very long distance.

Thank you, my friend / Thank you, Mobius.

I genuienly think Loki learned a lot about himself and the essence of life so different from what he knew because of his time at the TVA, not only because of Mobius. As Tom said in an interview ( for SagAftra Foundation) he found himself in this kafkaesque organization, where people, now variants, are just numbers and a verdict: guitly. That gradually changes, but as we see Loki evolve, it's Mobius who stays by his side. They meet at the TVA, and influence each other for the better while changing the institution as well!! "Thanks for the spark"

It's Mobius who looks at Loki without judgement. With a little bit of admiration, even.

It's Mobius who tells Loki he doesn't have to be alone. And that he can be someone good.

He offers this outcast, a "mischevious liar", a hand, both literally and figuratively.

And this is returned, because now Loki is trusting Mobius, something we barely see the God of Mischief do before, right? (examples: Mobius is the one Loki turns to in episode 1, they very much work together in episode 2 when finding Brad and getting that information out of him, and at the end of the ep Loki stayed. The hug, our only on screen *actual* hug between these two, at the end of season 1. It's great).

It's Mobius who Loki turns to, at the roots of this relationship, when not knowing what to do anymore, or needing that last piece of the puzzle, or number of the equation (and knowing the person that will give it). That "thank you, Mobius" as Loki shakes his hand is like a reflection to all this time spent together, not only that moment in time. It's a thank you of ages, of learning how to love and BE loved; learning, across this path, that every life and every branch is worth of love, ultimately turning Loki's understanding and caring of this in the biggest motivation.

And the thing is it doesn't even have to be romantic!! (I mean it kind of is to us fans, but not everyone sees it that way*ahem*D!sney). But even platonically, this is still a very strong connection, undeniable so. Everyone agrees: Kevin Wright "He cares about Mobius, more than he ever cared about anyone else", Eric Martin : "They have great chemestry", Tom: "They're *passionately* disagreeing" or any time he talks about these 2.

Secondly after Loki's fulfilling journey and more than poetic end, these 2 are certainly the best we got this season.

Thanks for reading <3