Clarity arrives like an uninvited guest after we've stopped preparing for its arrival.
The hand that hesitates before marking paper knows something the confident stroke never will. In productive confusion, we become liquid architecture, seeping through the cracks that certainty would cement shut, finding underground rivers that cartographers deemed impossible.
When we release the tyranny of knowing our destination, we become spelunkers in our own psyche, finding cave paintings we didn't know we'd drawn. The jazz musician doesn't find notes between certainty—they inhabit the frequency where certainty dissolves. Morning mist doesn't reveal beauty