Maybe fulfillment, however fleeting, trumps the state of brooding & hollow I’ve come to call home. Maybe it pays to dream. Maybe slingshots, maybe gunfire, finality, and breakage discredits our faith. Maybe picketfence embraces and worrying about someone won’t hurt as much in the long run. Maybe fear is fear and is poisonous when left unchecked. Maybe loneliness has a cure and you should never give up trying to find it.
Maybe cringing is a sign. Maybe the signs you see in passing are morbid little cues left by fate to counter what your past lives have repeatedly ignored. Maybe we can finally stop equating isolation with safety. Maybe reclusivity and stillness can also be draining. Maybe it’s time we go against our nature to grin and bear whispers of hopelessness that dot our days. Maybe the microtensions we shrug off are, in reality, massive, and that strength is never measured by how much of it you withstand. Maybe we’ve had enough of bursting open and raw to the elements of destruction. Maybe we should stop thinking of desire as a double-edged sword. Maybe it can’t be just that alone.
Maybe omission. Maybe conditioning. Maybe wistfulness. Maybe it’s time we leave dazed and deranged in favor of dignity. Maybe nostrils laced with fumes of death is in truth horrendous and never romantic. Maybe heavy-handed is the answer to frailty. Maybe frailty is a cancer to resilience. Maybe resilience is just within reason.
Maybe suffering is eternal – then again maybe not, maybe capriciousness, may even be lies. Maybe our dying hearts deserve its last few beats when melancholy pulses red and angry through our veins. Maybe memories of bittersweet kisses eventually wear off. Maybe chances. Maybe inflections. Maybe gravity. Maybe it’s all forced. Maybe some tears are best swallowed – and the void is our only friend.
Maybe we stop finding depth in the wrong places. Maybe we scream and noone hears us because every curse falls on ears that would much rather hear the bass and dance to the beat of falsehood. Maybe it’s all the same. Maybe we’re trapped in whatever crowd, companion, or ceremony we’re in. Maybe the narratives we find ourselves in are circular. And that love is repetitive. Maybe monotonous.
Maybe we consummate for the sake of having something for the sake of maybe for the sake of pride for the sake of frustration in the wake of another grand mistake. Maybe questioning is pointless. Maybe our maybes are rabid symptoms of our madness.
Maybe it will all make sense – in the end.
but for now, maybe we go back to the title.