It is in the nature of the manchild to propose questions like this one, and subtly embedded schemes and advice that attempt to provide definitive answers even if they are couched in contingent language: but, and, sometimes, often. See me feel how right I am, I mean usually.

In unripened form we sound utterly sure of ourselves, and that effect is doubled when the casually proposed certainties are backed by a wildly rushing intellect that everyone agrees is exceptional. We gather convictions and hold them tight. We believe.

At 22 you’re largely judged by the prettiness and promise of your certain proposals.

In middling years this feature is worn down by the erosions of time and battle, and may come to a point where nothing at all is certain; this may be confessed openly, even angrily.

By 55 no one cares anymore about what you Promise. The criteria of judgment are more concrete and less forgiving. You’ve either proven the varied hypotheses, or not, and the judgments that sit upon you are quantitative, numerical, usually fiscal but otherwise inferenced from the quality of your shoes, haircut, moonroof … a modern woman loves her a seatwarmer button.

***

Out past even that point I stand on this ground, a concrete driveway.

After a period of doubt, I again feel the quality of mind under me to be an exceptional ride.

Erosion is real, and if I seem to be saying that I’m certain I’m right, I’m lying to someone, at least to myself in front of your eyes.

I’m no longer concerned for proving my quantitative worth; that ship has sailed and the counterfactual hypothesis is accepted.

My qualitative worth is not for me to judge, or you, or a posterity of freshman comp teachers, but only for Ashtoreth if she cares to, and she doesn’t.

Thus, no worries, for anyone.

Tentative calm.