Doubt is a man (yes, a man) dressed in a black and white tuxedo with a top hat, carrying a cane.  He does not waddle but looks like a penguin and comes in and out of the few windowless rooms of the house that resides somewhere in the more danker neighborhood near my heart.  He is an odd fellow, middle-aged but looks older with his spectacles.  He does not speak, just uses body language and facial expressions to let me know he does not approve, mostly when I am certain.  From time to time I dismiss him, ignore him, swat him away with a swipe of my hand as if he were only as big as a fly.  But he is not small and manageable like a fly, he is life-size.  One day I asked him why he did not speak and from his pockets he withdrew old discarded scrabble tiles (a game I loathe) and fashioned a response that read: “I do not speak because you do not give me permission.”  It was then I knew that Doubt was something over which I had control.  He could only go as far and as deep into the house of my heart as I let him.  So then I asked, “What are you doing here anyway?  You do not belong here.  In fact, I think I’d like to ask you to leave now.”  So he did.  Every so often, I hear his cane tapping along the corridor just beyond the other side of the door and he knocks but I cannot come to the door right now, I say.  I have company.  Certainty is here.       

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