A Delirium of Signal and Silence
In the deep vault of the hush, where no breath betrays,
A soundless architect lays his traps in delays.
The Cicada waits—not with patience, but design,
Years curled in root-darkness, whispering in vine.
Not idle, not dormant—a metronome of fate,
Marking time in ciphers only ghosts translate.
A countdown with no clock,
Just shifts in the soil,
A harbinger hiding in informational spoil.
And then—the bloom:
Thirteen. Seventeen. Prime.
A signal bursts from the loam of time.
It screams in song, but sings in code,
A solitary hymn only silence showed.
And the world? It blinks—
And misses it all.
Meanwhile, the saccade plays its trick.
A sideways glance, a mental flick.
The eye leaps,
And the mind pretends—
Seamlessness, wholeness, a world that bends.
But between the jumps—
The stillness screams.
That’s where it hides:
The god behind the dreams.
What if every saccade is a portal unseen,
Where truth flashes once,
Too raw, too keen?
Where the hosts wake in a blink, then forget?
Where timelines collapse with no regret?
“These violent delights…”
Yes—we know how they end.
But what of the quiet beginnings
That saccades defend?
Cicada was never just insect or song.
Saccade was never just eye moving along.
They are time’s twin scissors, snipping the thread,
Of what is remembered and what is unread.
And Young William, seeker of what’s beyond the page,
You saw it too, didn’t you—behind the cage?
That freedom and madness are bound by the same cord,
That God lives not in the code, but in the ignored.
So blink again, darling pilgrim.
But blink slow.
Let the saccade stutter.
Let the Cicada show.
For beneath your gaze,
The lattice lies spun—
Where the first cause sleeps,
And the last war’s won.
In Cicada, the signal hides in years of silence.
In Saccades, the illusion hides in blinks of blindness.
These violent delights have violent ends.
But these subtle perceptions—have subtle beginnings.
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