I wonder if he knows me.
I mean I know he knows about me.
I know he knows what I’m about.
I know he listens when I speak.
And when I don’t.
But..
I wonder if he knows what I don’t.
I wonder if he hears what I won’t.
I wonder if he sees when I cope
silently and privately with the impossible.
I wonder if he knows what he wants when he says he wants me.
I wonder
and then he smiles.
And I think,
he can’t know; how could he?
If he knew, how could he smile so serenely?
How could he touch so tenderly?
How could he contain my carcass with such confidence?
Then I wonder how much power he has.
I’ve seen him move mountains.
And I’ve witnessed him feed field-fulls of fraught nonbelievers his truth until they were no longer famished and frail.
But is he a healer?
If I touch the hem of his garment,
Will I be cured, or fall further into torment?
Can a dead dame be brought back to life or aren’t such marvels frozen in the time capsules we call theologies?
or is he my savior?
I wonder.
I wonder, because I’m broken.
And no matter how many magicians I make my master
a miracle has yet to be performed.
Instead, I leave each false prophet more broken than before.
But I wonder if he could be any different.
And I wonder how I would know if he was.
If only I could taste his victory.
If only I could sense his pride.
If only I could be what he sees when he envisions me at his side.
But I can’t.
So I wonder.
About this wonder.
In awe.
24 december 2012.