How much uncertainty is there
really, in the way we deal with each other, in everyday life. Worries and fears. Setting boundaries, offering closeness — what is too much, what is too little, in what I give and in what I expect.
Thankfully, I cannot look into other people’s minds. Maybe they would not tell me anyway. And if they did — it would probably be the optimistic version. The one they think I can bear. Or the one they themselves happen to believe in that moment.
What would be wrong with that. We all tell ourselves stories that make continuing possible. Life is a grindstone anyway — the inside is allowed to be smooth sometimes.
Uncertainty is not a weakness someone indulges in. It is the most honest thing two people can be for one another — the confession that the other person matters.
It feels as though uncertainty is often the driving force beneath it all. Who would I be to judge that. I sent my inner judge on a permanent spa holiday — or at least I am trying to, more and more.
Absolutism is entirely misplaced here. Closeness cannot be calibrated. It cannot even truly be measured — because the scale itself changes with every conversation, with every silence in between.
Whoever knows exactly how much closeness is right has stopped truly perceiving the other person. They have built a model instead. Neat, manageable — and a little lifeless.
The light of insight burns quite intensely when one shows oneself through uncertainty like this. You stand there, somewhat exposed, and realise: this was not weakness — this was honesty.
Not because you did something wrong. But because you saw something. Yourself, perhaps. Or the other person more clearly than expected.
That burns. And still does not stop being true.
Uncertainty lives from not knowing.
And I think that is beautiful.
Written on May 24, 2026 at 20:40. © 2026 Whisper7. All rights reserved.