"Perhaps / Можливо"
Some of the hardest seasons of my life have lived inside a single word: maybe. Perhaps is my song about learning to stand inside that word without it crushing me.
It comes from the old parable of the farmer whose horse runs away. The neighbors cry what terrible luck. He says: perhaps. The horse returns leading wild horses — what wonderful luck! He says: perhaps. The whole song is built on that refusal to label the moment before it's finished happening:
Perhaps, perhaps
not good, not bad
who knows
Around that calm center, a chorus of voices keeps shouting verdicts. They're certain. They're loud. And every verse, they're sure they know exactly what just happened to me:
"Ink on the paper — so that's the end!"
they shout that my whole life is gone
but I'm still looking at the light
perhaps
That's the shape of the whole song. Other people declared my situation a catastrophe — a signature, a loss, a door slammed — and I wouldn't co-sign the verdict. Not out of denial. Because the story wasn't over, and perhaps was the only honest thing I had. When you're afraid, uncertainty feels like a trapdoor; every maybe is a threat. But maybe is also the only place anything new can still happen. A yes is closed. A no is closed. Only perhaps is still moving.
And then the same voices flip — what looked like ruin gets relabeled as a blessing — and they're just as loud about that:
"Now you are free — oh lucky you!"
they shout, they shout, they shout
but I'm already dancing
who knows
That line is the whole victory. But I'm already dancing. I didn't wait for permission, or for the verdict to settle. While everyone else argued over whether it was a blessing or a disaster, I was already moving.
This is why the song belongs in my catalog beside the ones about holding on, letting go, and waiting. Perhaps is the weather all of those happen under — the uncertain sky. You hold on perhaps. You let go perhaps. You wait for spring perhaps. The not-knowing isn't only the risk. It's where the possibility lives.
And it lands where all my songs land — in freedom, not dread. The point isn't who knows, anything could go wrong. It's the opposite: who knows, anything could open. By the last verse the suspended judgment has quietly become a kind of liberation:
Perhaps, perhaps
and I am breathing free
Perhaps, perhaps
who knows
The song lives in two languages — two ways into the same room. The maybe in my mother tongue, and the maybe anyone can step inside. Both of them, in the end, leaving the door open on purpose — and dancing anyway.