Most days, at least lately, I sit in solitude justifying my existence in her life.
Each day grows increasingly harder to justify than the last.
I don’t always feel worthy – of her. Of the life we share.
I’d like to be something more than what I experience myself to be, do something extraordinary. Make more money. Overcome the sadness of reality.
Maybe I will do these things.
I worry I won’t. I worry its too late for me.
I worry she’s contained by an illusion of maybe.
I share this with her. She listens. When I am done, she points out how we are all contained within an illusion of maybe.
It sounds different when she says it. As it rolls off of her tongue, maybe sounds like hope.