maybe i’ll never be a mother

sometimes i question whether i could be a mother. writer. traveller. mother. the three assumed forks of my priorities. but sometimes, on hollow saturday nights like tonight, when i am so wearing from all the existing, i doubt how i could ever go through it all again–once, twice, three times, maybe four–but this time watching little beings that i’ll love more than i could ever possibly love myself. 

i am not depressed. i am not unhappy. it’s just that, tonight, the sheer volume of my life’s experiences is a draining thought. i have thought and felt and seen and heard and said and loved and feared so much and i’m not even 30 and if i have children i will have to live so many more lives and i doubt if i’ll have the energy for that.

and how could i bear to bring children into this world, knowing that love and luck and education and laughter cannot protect you from horrifying loneliness? how could i bear to watch my child go through what i have been through? exhausted on my own journey, from where would i gather the strength to go through it again?


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I drink, I laugh, I smoke, I write.

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