Vachon Imagined

“Am I the one?” she asked the water as it drifted over her hands.

And the water answered:

Yes.
You are the one.
And I am the one.

We merge in movement.
We merge in absence — the absence of mind, the absence of the self that interrupts the sacred with language. The self that points and says: Look at the water. How beautiful. How divine.

As if divinity could survive being pinned beneath a name.

But all naming is temporary. All definitions are held together by the fragile adhesive of time, by human hands desperate to preserve separation. Eventually the glue loses its chemical integrity, its inherited bondage, and all things begin to dissolve back into what they were before they were spoken aloud.

And so she found herself again beside the stream, asking the same ancient question:

Am I you, or are you me?

And the water answered:

Neither.

I am life itself, and I run through you as you run through me. We are not separate. We were never distinct. Your body remembers this long before your mind permits it.

I live through you.
You live through me.

You know this only when you loosen your grip on thought — when you stop interrogating existence and simply remain inside it. Not above it. Not outside it. Within it.

When you release the need to understand, you become capable of belonging.

I am the water.
You are the vine.

And between us is earth — ancient, wordless, divine.