Vachon Imagined

Where desire splits, an atom loses its nature. It is no longer an atom—perhaps an atomicle, if language can bend that far without breaking. We are making words now, because when one thing becomes another, even the quantum seems to hesitate, as if mystified by its own reflections. So, we bury reason for a moment and play.

We play like children at a chalkboard, drawing symbols that pretend to hold the weight of reality. A wavicle, yes—let’s call it that. Why not. And what is it, really? I don’t know. I don’t care. The name is only a temporary shape we give to uncertainty so we can keep looking at it without flinching.

But whatever it is—this splitting, this refusal to remain singular—it breeds an explosion of desire that radiates in every direction. Not as one force, but as a scattering of intentions, each one interpreted differently depending on the eye that receives it. From the saintly to the wicked, it gives itself equally, though never identically.

It does not choose what it becomes in the one who perceives it.

It only becomes.

And in that becoming, desire is no longer singular. It is a field of interpretations, a living contradiction spreading outward, feeding every lens it touches—each one calling it by a different name, each one convinced it has understood what it is seeing.