Apophenia

We trace constellations in the random scatter, find meaning in the static's white noise pulse, read futures in the splatter of spilled coffee, fingers reaching for a signal in the dark.

The brain demands a shape, a story, order— refuses the comfortable truth of accident. Every coincidence becomes a message, every mirror crack a code we must decipher.

Even silence speaks in tongues we invent, patterns blooming like fungi on wet wood, spreading through the gaps where reason falters. We are architects of our own bewilderment.

Until the day we stumble backward into genuine chaos, and find it looks nothing like the beauty we imagined.