Hypotheses

I thought that for sure I’d be walking by now, marching forward like a seasoned soldier with confident strides in robotic, just-like-second-nature-fashion. But now I see that taking ten thousand baby steps successfully simply makes you a baby ten thousand steps further down the stretch of this long road. But still a babe. I thought that after all these years I would magically transform into some kind of master of something, maybe of this school of thinking or of these practices of speaking. Ala-ca-zam! You know? Yet, the only thing I seem to be a master of, consequently, is illusion. Self-illusion. The trick was on me. Poof! goes my hypothesis. But still, I was at least certain of this one thing. That after seven thousand times of relishing my mud, and seven thousand times of romping in raw sewage, and seven thousand times of returning to lick my own prodigal vomit, surely He would see me for who I am, and the Voice would leave, and the indwelling flame would be doused. And yet, He does see me, and He sees also Him. And the still small Voice still whispers. And the eternal flame still burns in my soul, and is not extinguished. And, thank God, I am wrong again. -- Rick Fields