Out of a dream, I wake before the rooster cries. The unspoiled silence is clarifying, and in sound mind, I conclude; I must decide. Do I believe? There is no in-between.
Illumination or isolation?
Decide.
Elevation or desolation?
Decide.
Providence or coincidence?
Decide.
And I rise, my first step, one step closer. But to what? To where? Maybe whom?
The good book, this page, the typeface, and the message are old, resolute, in my searching hands. The frogs are chirping, and a calm early summer breeze fills my home. My rumpled hound takes his breakfast as the sublime dawn whispers and the harassing question of my lifelong plague shrouds me still, a well-worn tormentor, my everyday locust overcoat. Vipers circle my feet.
And I read.
Ye of little faith. What do you fear?
Belief, I fear faith. I say.
And then I receive. From me?
Skeptic, come in from the rain.
A kingdom awaits.
Be dry.
Believe, I am. And you can.
And so, I do. I decide.
In Providence, I choose.