La Fausse Causalité

Lyrics

The earth is cracked porcelain.
The sky, a blank blue page.
And the mind… the mind hates a vacuum.
It will write a story there, any story.

The first time, it was an accident.
You dropped the clay pot from Jericho. It shattered.
And the next morning, dew on the barley.
A coincidence. A gift.
But the mind, the story-teller, it takes notes.
It draws a line from A to B.
From the sound of breaking to the taste of water.
A seed is planted. Not in the soil.
In the skull.

Post hoc ergo propter hoc.
After this, therefore because of this.
The oldest lie we tell ourselves.
The warmest blanket in the cold.
The rain came after the dance.
So the dance brought the rain.
Simple. Elegant. And wrong.

Now the ritual has rules.
The pot must be from the same maker.
It must be broken on a Tuesday.
Facing east.
You wear the feathers of the crow that stole the corn last season.
A little piece of sympathetic magic, Sir James would have called it.
You are building a cathedral of sequence.
A logic of luck.
Each year the dance gets longer.
The offerings, more specific.

Post hoc ergo propter hoc.
After this, therefore because of this.
The oldest lie we tell ourselves.
The warmest blanket in the cold.
The rain came after the dance.
So the dance brought the rain.
It has to be true.

The Roman augur saw the wrong bird and sent the legions home.
The gambler blows on his lucky dice, the ones from 1843.
You wear the same shirt to every final exam.
The logic hasn't changed, just the stage.
We are all just farmers, standing in our dry fields,
shattering our little pots,
begging the sky to notice the grammar of our desperation.

The clouds gather on their own schedule.
A low-pressure system moves in from the coast.
John Stuart Mill would have a field day.
But you are already dancing.
After this…
…therefore because of this.