Some people -- and I am not excluding myself -- get out of bed in the morning wracked by one confusion or another. It's not something to treat lightly: The confusion can be vastly painful, encompassing, endless and aaaarrrrgh! Some loss, some inescapable set of circumstances, some piercing something-or-other.
Or maybe the confusion is just a tickle or a nag, something like a mild headache during which things could be better, but, oh well, I'll survive.
And yet -- did you ever notice? -- the confusion is utterly assured and sure of itself. There is no confusion about this confusion. Seriously -- this confusion really knows what's what. It makes self-assured blow-hards like Donald Trump look like a sissy by comparison.
And it is in this lack of confusion about confusion, I would speculate, that hope is born.