Signal

A signal is information available to the system now. "Now" matters.

While Maya sits in the meeting, Lewis's words are signals. So are his pause, the finance director's glance, the pressure in Maya's chest, the time on the clock, the open laptop, the social position of everyone present, and the active thought that this question is happening in public.

Signals can come from outside the body or inside it. A siren is a signal. So is pain. A facial expression is a signal. So is fatigue. A current bank balance, a smell, a remembered phrase that suddenly becomes active, a notification, a pulse of shame, and the silence after a question can all function as signals when they are available to shape the present render. Calling something a signal does not certify its meaning.

A racing heart signals arousal. It does not identify the cause by itself. A delayed reply signals delay. It does not prove contempt. A colleague's glance is available information. It is not a transcript of the colleague's mind. The signal is what enters the present system; the interpretation is what the system says the signal means. This distinction is easy to state and surprisingly difficult to keep.

Human beings are excellent at experiencing inference as perception. We do not usually feel that we saw a tightened mouth and inferred disapproval. We feel that we saw disapproval. We do not feel that we received a brief message and assigned it the frame of dismissal. We feel dismissed. The smoothness of the render hides the assembly.

That is not a defect unique to anxious people, biased people, or people having a bad day. It is how usable experience works. A mind that presented every sensation with a legal disclaimer would be accurate in a way that made action impossible.

The purpose of separating signal from interpretation is not to make ordinary life unbearably technical. It is to recover the distinction when consequence, conflict, or uncertainty makes it necessary.