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.
![](https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/blogger_img_proxy/AEn0k_vQwrYwondGdW9RRKZu7QN30uLQXQrGOvBlKkC1iHg-xIKMtF37yMdAUs5og6a5XOG9iicNN6sEMkG6gRt--r6tekhqsLlSmpKoRZNB0uw6Tp4pgX0scmIc3UtQrNZ8_7msvD56ceG6rfwHk7kVEhBvV9zCZCzCRcpZgKD2SNwrLGuXkxYHvDS_zl3L=s0-d)
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.
Confusion.
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.
No comments:
Post a Comment