It’s possible that I’ve been wearing the same shirt all week, but with no one around to tell me, how much can it matter?
It’s possible that perspective is everything, and yet, in art, perspective is dependent upon the horizon–an imaginary line that recedes as you approach it.
It’s possible that while I’m sitting here, wondering why you would want me, you are sitting somewhere not so far off, wondering why I would want you.
It’s possible that luck has nothing to do with it.
It’s possible that there’s no way to tell the difference between the people who will leave you and the ones who will stay, until they either walk out of your life or die still standing by your side.
It’s possible that dual and dueling realities can exist simultaneously, but how do you live in them without duplicating or being duplicitous?
It’s possible that it never gets easier to look forward instead of back.
It’s possible that I’ve tried to force this because I’m afraid it’s the best that’ll come along–but if this is the best that I’ve ever encountered, how am I supposed to know it’s not the best there is?
It’s possible that I will never comprehend the depth of my incomprehension.
It’s possible that Einstein was right, and that there are only two ways of living: one as if nothing is a miracle, and the other as if everything is.
It’s possible that happiness cannot be fully felt without first experiencing its absence.
It’s possible that I’ve only just learned what the trees have know all along: that once you find the soil that feeds your marrow, you send your roots down deep and never let go.
It’s possible that bad things are not all you need to say no to–but also good things, and even great things, if they’re simply not the right things.
It’s possible that what I want isn’t so impossible after all.