Perhaps

A boy once told me that he believed me in, that he believed in me since I was 13. How could you look at someone and see through them? How could you look at me and not see all the places I was yet to grow? But to see the growth that was bound to happen? How could you trust, that a young girl, knowing nothing about the world, would one day know enough to be beautiful? To be truly beautiful—in her soul? How could you see everything she was going to become and not everything wasn’t right now?

A boy once told me that he understood. That perhaps, he was going through something too. That perhaps, hearing my cries for help, my yearning for change, he was inspired to want more for his own life. To believe it is possible that someone, rightly, or wrongly, could take hold of the truth. That eventually, without doubt she’d reach it. Or perhaps see that one day she’ll realise she never will. And that it was never about the truth. But about what the process of yearning for it creates.

A boy once told me he could see through my rebellion. That he saw pain, not hate. A pain so deep, it could only feel like his own. His own he cannot express with the same words. Or perhaps did. But behind closed doors. But her, she spoke them. She spoke them to the world. Hoping. Perhaps. That speaking into the void. Someone would hear her. Someone would understand. And someone did.

If she were to do it all over again. She would say, perhaps, that now, she would not speak it to world. Because now. Or if she could do it again. She’d have the people around her to speak to. That she would cultivate the relationships with those who would listen (that truly, they, were the ones worth having around). Rather than fighting to speak to those who never seek to understand. Who never wish. Whose curiosity* dwindles in the light (or so it feels) of their shame. Shame perhaps for the feelings inside themselves they cannot articulate. Perhaps, will never articulate.

Perhaps, I should not use the word perhaps. In academia, they say you need to be sure. A perhaps is no good. But a perhaps is all anything really is. It is a shame. Because every time I write. Every time I speak. I really mean perhaps. But perhaps is not a word forbidden. A word that shan’t be said. It is not a word that the world wants to hear. But perhaps, is all we have. All we really have for certain. But no one rests on the certainty of uncertainty. But perhaps I’ll try.

*I wish someone told her (although she wouldn’t have listened) that their lack of curiosity did not reflect a flaw in her. But a flaw in them.