Vachon Imagined

God—the essence that lets everything be—does not bow to you. You bow to it. And in that bowing, something opens: the quiet instruction of what is real.

It sends an image through the mind like light through water. It gives hands the memory of touch, a mouth the shaping of sound. But it does not give ownership. It does not allow you to wrap it in language and call it yours. The moment you try, something in the seeing tightens. It becomes smaller. It becomes spoken about instead of lived. It becomes a thing among things.

And then the mind begins its restless work—comparison, reaching, becoming. Turning what is alive into a measure of itself, as if truth could be improved by effort, as if being could be climbed like a ladder made of thought.

But desire is not the enemy. Desire remembers. It leans toward what has already leaned toward you. You knew it before you had words for it. Before explanation arrived and covered it over. It moved through you without asking permission, and you simply followed the pull, saying yes before you knew what you were saying yes to.

Still—do not mistake the pull for possession.

This life is not held in the hands of anyone. It is not yours to carry, not mine to define. It arrives, it moves, it speaks, and it passes through whatever we are.

And there are prophets—voices that rise like lamps in the dark, pointing where words alone cannot reach. They are not owners of the light, only witnesses of it. Even they do not contain what they speak. They gesture, and the gesture is all they can give.

And so it is not the prophet you must kneel to, but what the prophet once knelt before.

Something deeper is already speaking first—quietly, without name—where nothing is owned, and nothing is lost, and everything is seen as it is.