Maybe

I woke up this morning, itching to write this down.
It's short, it's bittersweet and I don't really foretell any more of it in the near future.
Putting pen to paper's my way of mockery, revenge and justice.
Maybe this is a mixture, because I definitely wrote it with a mixture of feelings.

Featuring my favourite word : Maybe.

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2. Maybe.

 

 

Maybe he was tired - worn out from the endless drone of the boiler, reminding him of the inflation in gas prices.

Maybe he’d searched that entire day for that leaky hot tap, to find nothing, all the while heinously snapping at his patient mother on the phone because no, he hadn't found a girlfriend yet.

Maybe he’d been excited for the steadying calm pitter-patter of April shower raindrops, only to find they wouldn't come because of bloody global warming.

And maybe he longed to be somewhere else, somewhere he could begin to think coherently, and not be deprived of crucial air and breathing space.

Somewhere like the ocean... Not one with a blaring sun and tanned naked complications; more like a rocky beach, filled to the brim with sediment, and not too much coastal management.

Maybe his eyes couldn't be eased away from that single shingle beach in Wales. And maybe that’s why he got into his tiny Vauxhall Astra, with an overnight duffle bag, money for the trip, a few duvets, and the entire contents of his fridge in the early hours of the morning.

 

 

And on that same beach, a few hours later... Maybe a different man decided to ignore the tidal warnings. 

Maybe he couldn't understand them. 

Or maybe the obscurity lay in the reasons as to why they would ever dare to stop a free man, doing what nature intended him to do: to be free.

Maybe he was guilty of being an optimist, believing that somehow, somewhere, there would be a plan for him and his lack of qualifications.

Maybe he had a talent, for drawing and dreaming, but maybe he didn't want the world to twist it into something else.

Maybe he hadn't found that special someone yet because he was too busy curing himself of a disease he just didn't have...

Maybe he was lonely.

Maybe cold lattes with caramel and green tea shots were refusing to cut it.

His love of media, video games and beer was slowly beginning to subside, making way for way more than one mid-life crisis.

Maybe he was open for interpretation.

And maybe, just maybe, he decided that the moonlight was at just the right brightness for drawing childish cartoons in the sand, just before the tide came in.

 

 

Did they meet? Maybe.

Maybe his car didn't go all the way, maybe it had a break down, and a small funeral was held for it a couple of nights later.

Maybe he stopped for petrol, and didn't make it to the beach before the waves betrayed them, getting rid of the cartoons that could have brought them together.

Maybe the evening stroller stumped his toe, and turned right back around in order to find aid.

Maybe they bumped into each other, but didn't say anything more.

Maybe one thought that the other one's dreams were childish, and they cut off ties from the onset.

Maybe they were one or two seconds late. 

Maybe they just didn't catch each other's eyes.

 

 

But what if the travel agent from Birmingham got infatuated with the beach roamer at Criccieth Bay?

Maybe they talked on the rocks about things that they felt were necessary.

Maybe they stayed there until the sun began to show.

Maybe they stayed there for even longer.

Maybe they shared a moment.

Maybe they had a spark. 

Maybe it was obviously meant to be.

Maybe.

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