Some days are tinged with a sort of hazy, melancholy doubt. You wake up with the strange, sinking sense that if only you could shift things — just so — they would align. You're sure, wildly sure, that if only you could make that slight rearrangement, the most subtle of moves, then moment after moment would fall into place. Like a puzzle, a perfect puzzle. But for that gap. It's that tiny, nagging little gap between where things are and where they should be that leaves you breathless, waiting. Because you don't know how to fill that space. You aren't sure which piece to move, which play to make. You aren't sure, or maybe you aren't ready, or maybe you aren't supposed to make any moves at all. Doubt.
But then, another day. There's another day and then another, and then suddenly the wind's knocked out of you again, this time because conviction presses like a weight against your chest. Without any sort of warning, you just know. One day slides slowly into the next, doubt slipping between the cracks until you're left with the gift of rock-solid certainty. Clarity — it's always such a welcome surprise, isn't it?