Jibberish

Language remained, but meaning was stripped away.

They spoke in loops, refining the message, carving lies into sound bites—sharp enough to cut, pliable enough to spread. Each bite was crafted to be swallowed whole, easy to repeat, coated to resist doubt.

And the people swallowed them without question.

They did not hunger for truth—truth was bitter, difficult to chew. It required effort, made the stomach turn. Easier, then, to accept what was offered: words softened, pre-masticated, broken down into something comforting, something safe. No contradictions. No struggle. No need for thought—only the warmth of certainty, spoon-fed in measured doses.

What was certain yesterday became questionable today, ridiculed tomorrow. Debate was endless, urgent, a spectacle designed to exhaust. The louder they spoke, the less was understood.

Accusations spun outward, reflecting blame, twisting reality until the guilty stood as victims and the righteous were condemned. Lies were repeated with such precision that truth became indistinguishable from noise.

And when the last real word was spoken, no one noticed. They had already learned to live without it.