Vachon Imagined

The embodiment of a messiah arrives like fresh bread left too long in the pantry—holy at first. Luscious to the tongue. Warm enough to make you believe something eternal has entered the room. You tear pieces from it greedily, letting them dissolve against the roof of your mouth like revelation itself.

But exposure changes everything.

Too much air.
Too much handling.
Too much time beneath human hands.

The bread hardens. Loses fragrance. Loses mystery. What once felt sacred becomes ordinary, and people discard it in search of better bread, fresher bread, bread they imagine will remain untouched by decay.

But all bread stales eventually.

Desire works the same way. Dress it differently, rename it, worship it beneath prettier lights, and still it keeps its original shape. Its intention never changes: to pull you fully into life, into body, into appetite, into the terrifying privilege of embodiment itself. The messiah was never outside the flesh. The messiah was the flesh.

Not reserved for saints.
Not withheld from wanderers.
The obedient and the gypsy drink from the same well.

The question is whether you recognize it while it is flowing,
or spend your life running past living water,
searching instead for fresher bread.