If someone were to look at this entire tragedy, this colossal waste of time accumulated over the years that I call my body of work, the recurring, defining idea, the leitmotif of it all, if you will, would not be too obscure. The word ‘perhaps’ would take the crown and do it by a large margin, like the results of a disappointing, one-sided ballot, and for good reason, too. Perhaps. What a wonderfully pedestrian way to suggest possibility, and yet, all the better for it.
A friend once commented—when friends still read my work, when it was not as much of a daily obligation or as befuddling—that my usage of the word ‘perhaps’ was the source of their annoyance, their avoidance towards sitting through my drivel. I looked at them and smiled, thinking how sad one must be to despise the mere mention of possibility. But to me, it is all about the maybes and the perhapses. Most life happens in the simple realm of possibility.
All my advice, all my life, begins and ends with it. Or perhaps I buy too much into what I sell, and all of it is but bias. Perhaps, that is true.
Perhaps, both things are true.