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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required The Great Silence We run two threads at once through the veins of this exhausted century, and truth and lies are dancing the same waltz in shattered mirrors, for the files open up like wounds that no longer wish to bleed, and the screens vomit light until blindness becomes a way of seeing. We are witnesses to a flood in which nobody ever drowns, we just float among real names and hallucinations of equal weight, while the bots chew reality and spit it into a billion fragments, each shard claiming to be the whole unbroken mirror of the world. In the Tribal Phase we confess our guilt and forgive ourselves instantly, for every faction carries the same skeleton in its closet and stays silent, and Mutually Assured Destruction becomes a paradoxical pact of peace: we don't kill each other because we'd all die, so we die together slow. Apathy arrives like a blessing, like anesthesia for the conscience, and horror becomes wallpaper, the backdrop to our infinite scroll, we know the evil and the evil knows us, but consequences are ghosts, and the social contract dissolves in the boredom of its own decay. On a Tuesday like any other, a leader declares a war that doesn't exist, but the official denial is just as false as the declaration itself, and we hang suspended between two lies that cancel each other out, in the void of trust where neither yes nor no holds any meaning. The Cloud freezes and we freeze with it, digital statues in abandoned museums, and the global village shatters into a thousand hamlets that can't see each other, we can only deal with those we touch, with flesh and bone, and distance becomes real again, measured in footsteps, not in pixels. I overlay the two simulations and watch the Great Silence rising, a wave that doesn't wash but covers everything in a layer of dense forgetting, I no longer trust the people in power, nor the screen through which I watch them, and I become an island in the neo-feudal archipelago of collective disillusion. I will tend only to my radius, only what I can see and touch and smell, and the giant structure remains a ghost town I inhabit without believing, the universe contracts to the size of a courtyard, of an outstretched hand, and I find in this collapse a melancholic aesthetic, almost beautiful. It is the biological correction, the system shedding its unbearable weight, for we were not built to process the morality of a billion strangers, nor to simulate a billion stars inside our small and warm skulls, and so we return to the default setting: me, you, and the silence between us. The noise before was maybe just the echo of a world too big for us, and now, in the quiet after saturation, we hear our heartbeats once again, we are survivors of our own evolution, both failed and victorious, and in the digital ruins, we plant gardens we can touch with our hands.
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