Confusion is a word we have invented for an order which is not yet understood
To the world, she had it all. A lot, at least. A handsome and intelligent man. Three glittering girls. A happy home. A passion for prose. And she knew this. She appreciated it. She thanked her lucky stars. But, the truth was, she plodded through her days, bright days, busy days, very confused. Confused about who she was and who she was becoming. About what she wanted and why she wanted it and if she truly wanted it. Her confusion was her secret, sturdy within, something she quietly cherished. But it rattled her also, making her feel scattered and slow sometimes. The landscape of her life loomed, gorgeous with greens and grays, and toward it she traveled, skipping here and stumbling there, but knowing. Knowing that there was a pattern there, a deep order she could not yet fathom. In her confusion, she flailed and she sailed, alternating between a shy smile and a slight sulk. All the while, thankful for it all. The things the world saw. And those only she felt.
Do you ever feel confused about your identity and your unfurling life? Do you think there is a metaphysical and existential richness in confusion? Would you rather experience an utter absence of confusion or an excess of it?