Vachon Imagined

I look into your eyes carrying a weight that pulls you toward mine. You cannot help but look back as something ancient moves between us—life unshackled by grief, unnamed by man because man insists on owning what he did not create. He claims it, labels it, teaches it back to us as though it began in his mouth.

But the way was known before language.
Before man.
Before time learned how to count itself.

And so we speak through the eyes instead, moving life silently back and forth between us like water between two open hands. In that gaze, something terrifying happens: we see each other before performance, before history, before identity hardens into name.

For a moment, I see who you are.
And through you,
perhaps for the first time,
who I am too.