Vachon Imagined

They said, you talk too much about yourself. Make your writings more universal.

Ah, I see.

So change “I” to “they.” Or “he.” Put another name on it, one other than myself, and that will make them more comfortable?

Ah.

I get it now.

And as she changed “I” to “them,” something did happen.

People started to feel more invited to participate.

She stood behind the pseudonym, laughing.

It’s still you, bozo.

You are entering the consciousness of your own self.

But I suppose putting distance between yourself and the reader makes it safer. Like the mosquito who wants to touch the flame but knows it will be destroyed by it.

In the best way possible.

So she changed her name to his, and he took credit for it. They all applauded because at least it was a man, and at least it wasn’t them.

She wondered, from what other consciousness could I speak?

But they didn’t listen.

Keeping her outside of them made it easier to glorify her.

Certainly easier to punish.

So she changed her name because, in life, it didn’t matter.

But for the foolish who thought they were walking outside of it, it did.

And so she acquiesced and changed.

Because it didn’t matter.

Her.

Him.

They.

She was still walking inside of it.

Still entering consciousness.

Still inviting them to participate in something they had judged, then lost themselves in, and her in the process.