No such thing as confidence.
Unless you have confidence in that fact, there’s a thing.
A trust in oneself, a humble trust that the self will go on.
Maybe.
As in confide.
It’s a secret told to the self, trusting that it won’t be betrayed.
A secret – there’s the rub.
There’s no secret worth telling the self.
It’s all before you anyway.
All on offer, either taken or passed.
Accepted or denied in the arc of personal story.
A chimney-top crow waiting on the crack of dawn – yes.
A thought of what someone else might think – no.
A draft through the floorboards.
A rat-nibbled pear in the fruit bowl.
An obituary email.
The growing bump on an inseminated woman.
Tree tops yawning for the early sun.
Yeah, yeah, yeah . . .
The confidence of what appears being true.
And all else untrue.