Vachon Imagined

The vagina arrived politicized before it ever arrived human. Before first love, before first touch, before first understanding, it was already spoken for. Legislated. Sermonized. Wrapped in white fabric and warnings. A sacred thing, they said, while treating it like evidence in a trial no woman remembered agreeing to attend.

Cover it.
Protect it.
Save it for someone.
Carry shame inside it like a second womb.

And religion stood above it all like a watchtower, turning biology into morality. Blood became guilt. Desire became temptation. Eve reached for knowledge and generations of women inherited punishment disguised as virtue. The body was no longer a body—it became a battlefield between heaven and appetite.

Meanwhile, the penis was drafted into empire.

A biological accident inflated into doctrine. Flesh transformed into hierarchy. Boys learned quickly that manhood was not something they were, but something they had to constantly defend. The church blessed conquest; the nation sanctified dominance. Fathers handed sons emotional starvation and called it strength.

Do not cry.
Do not kneel.
Do not become soft enough to recognize yourself in another person’s suffering.

The penis became monument, weapon, flagpole, signature. Entire governments rose and fell trying to protect the fragile mythology surrounding it. Wars fought by frightened boys pretending invincibility was holiness. Violence became sacrament. Power became prayer.

And somewhere beneath all of it, the body itself remained innocent.

Cells dividing without ideology.
Bones forming without nationalism.
A heartbeat unconcerned with gender roles.
The nervous system never asked to become scripture.

But humanity could not resist attaching meaning to flesh. They mapped morality onto anatomy. Built economies from insecurity. Built religions from fear. Built identities so rigid they cut the spirit each time it tried to move freely beneath them.

So woman performed womanhood.
Man performed manhood.
And those standing outside the binary became mirrors no institution could comfortably look into, because they exposed the performance itself.

They/them:
the crack in the cathedral wall.
The question without a convenient answer.
Proof that the soul had always been larger than the costume.

And eventually the exhaustion came.

Not suddenly, but collectively.

A spiritual fatigue so deep that the body itself began to feel too small for consciousness. The vagina too burdened with history. The penis too burdened with violence. Gender too burdened with inheritance.

And surrender arrived.

Not humiliation.
Not defeat.

A holy unraveling.

The realization that identity, too, could become an idol.

So she/her loosened her name.
He/him laid down the armor.
They/them stepped beyond the language entirely.

And all of them, at last, began leaving the body—not abandoning it, not destroying it, but seeing through it. Seeing it as temporary architecture. Beautiful, wounded, political architecture, but still only a doorway.

Because beneath the flesh was something vaster.

Light without gender.
Darkness without fear.
Consciousness before ideology.
A soul untouched by governments, untouched by churches, untouched by shame.

And there, finally, God no longer looked like a man seated above creation in judgment.

God became vastness itself.
The inhale and exhale of the universe.
The silence before language.
The darkness of the womb and the brightness of dying stars existing together without contradiction.

Not father.
Not mother.
Not ruler.

Simply being.

And the self, freed from the theater of flesh, dissolved gently into it—
not erased,
but expanded.

not identified,
but surrendered.