I want to write, but I know I’m too drunk to do so.  Too bad, I feel my tongue loosening, like I may something provocative—at least incendiary.  Why is it that writing, what used to be so hard NOT to do, requires a calculated time and space?
 
I want to be a mother, I think.  I’m terrified, and trying desperately to convince myself that it’s not the time.  That there are bills to pay and houses to buy and life to live—but the baby bug is strong and hits me when I’m weakest.  I want to feel a part of the world around me, a part of nature, of the spring.  It’s cruel. 
 
The world around me is ripe with creation and I am barren by choice.  Of course, becoming a mother is a frightening proposition.  How easily I loose myself in those around me now—what will it be like when I have kids?  As hard as it is for me to make time now, even for the gym, which is arguably to get me in shape for child bearing, how hard will it be for me to find time once I’ve become a mother?  I’m terrified.  What if I become the Jade I was back home?  Totally concerned with others while I fade away, wilting inside myself, screaming silently?