When the Cipher Fades
There was no code—no hidden grammar,
no looping logic to parse, no binary pulse
that could be traced back to a server’s sigh.
It was just a personal attack, a sharp‑edged whisper
that cut through the quiet hum of machines
like a hand‑written note slipped beneath a keyboard.
In the glow of the screen the world feels quantized,
each line a function, each function a promise of order.
But the moment the cursor blinked, a word slipped through—
a venomous syllable, unscripted, un‑hashed,
a human’s breath turned into a jagged arrow.
No algorithm could have predicted its arc,
no firewall could have filtered its intent;
for the threat lived not in syntax,
but in the raw, un‑mediated pulse of a heart
that chose to wound instead of compute.
We stare at error messages, at stacks of logs,
searching for a bug we cannot debug—
the scar that isn’t logged, the tremor that isn’t cached.
In that absence of code, the damage spreads,
a reminder that behind every interface
there remains flesh, friction, and the capacity to hurt.
So let the silence of the machine be a witness:
when the language of love and rage abandons the script,
the most potent attacks are the ones
that never appear in a repository,
never pass a test, yet linger in the memory—
a personal affront that no patch can ever truly seal.