Vachon Imagined

Becoming a cryptographer in the Army and chasing bad guys was fulfilling—until it wasn’t. It was, at best, a kind of game of whack-a-mole; at worst, a way to sound unpatriotic for noticing it. Honest, if I’m being precise.

Too often I lost sight of the bigger picture, which—seen from a human perspective—was supposed to be protecting life, protecting freedom. Though in this world that often means someone else loses theirs. Whack-a-mole, personified.

Still, I worked. Eventually I’d gather my senses again. And then there was the practical layer too: needing to make money, not wanting to offend my country. Jail for going AWOL wasn’t my idea of rest or summer planning, so I stayed in motion.

Eventually I left those bad guys and started chasing different ones. And man—was that ever satisfying… until it wasn’t.

People whose engines were always on full tilt, unable to turn off without a glass of vodka, or two, or ten. That constant need to do something makes it hard to be still—alone, or at peace. There’s just too much to do, too many people to save.

As if I could save people. As if I could stop war, racism, hate, humanity.

No. I’m not that powerful. And neither are you.

We can interrupt violence. We can reduce harm. We can soften what we’re in contact with. But it returns—always returning, waiting for the next person to hold it, manipulate it, try to fix it again.

Until you realize the ultimate mic drop—the ultimate expression of power—isn’t earned or taken. It’s given.

And when it’s accepted, far fewer things can inflate you—or undo you.