I have the desire lately to do. To create something. I want to color and paint and scribble and sew and bake and make a mess of everything. I want to make something that will inspire, or cause reflection, or touch a heart, a mind. Yet everything I think I can do... it just seems empty. I could start a cooking blog...but I'm not great at that and there are a thousand. Fashion? Not enough money to support that - though with an unlimited budget I'd be pretty fierce I'm sure. Makeup? Kind of the same boat as fashion, that and ... you know, lacking in skill. Fitness? Bah!

You get the idea. So what do I write about, what do I create? Besides a baby in womb with hiccups you mean? Not a whole lot. I haven't written a poem in ages, a decent one in even longer. Old words feel stagnant on the page. I've simply lost the motivation, the drive, my muse. Even my day-to-day words fall flatter than they ever have. Even my most inspired work, just. isn't. there.

My biggest worry is that I'm not worried enough. That with everything so completely and utterly fucked, I'm not stressed. Not as I would normally be anyway. I'm not worried about how unprepared John and I are for our baby that'll be joining us in 1.5-4.5 weeks. Life, it'll just work itself out. Bills will get paid even if we continually overdraw our account (I think). Dinner will get made, cats will get fed, cars will get worked on. Somehow it'll all work out.

What's wrong with me?

I make lists for reminding myself of things, not to obsess over them.

It's this strange sort of apathy that really doesn't feel all that apathetic at all. It's not that I don't care, just that I'm not stressing. Oliver must be pumping some good hormones my way or something. It's ridiculous.

So maybe those hormones are inspiring me to do as opposed to think, to create instead of worry. I just don't know what to spin, what to etch from the nothingness of the world into something. I want my words to reach across the distance of space and time and bring legions together, but I have no common theme, no driving force, nothing to keep a reader around. I'm sure there will be weight loss blogs, health blogs, maybe even some baby blogs (I'd expect one or two...). But I don't have anything unique.

I'm not particularly clever, nor smart, nor funny. I don't have any earth shattering ideas, or revolutionary concepts. I'm simple, ordinary. The day to day of my earthly existence can be replicated a thousand times over. I'm the extra in the background with coffee in hand, never the main character. I haven't traveled, I'm not crafty nor do I support any large organization.

Stripped to my core - I'm a mediocre writer without an idea to draw upon who thinks that maybe, maybe someone will want to read all this nonsense. Maybe, maybe someone from the right place will think I have the right tone and I'll all my dreams will come showering down around me along with unlimited fountain pens.

Yet here we are. Dark outside, almost nine months pregnant, with no real accomplishments to show my unborn son. No real goals other than inspiring Johnathan to provide for the son he hasn't met yet and doesn't feel an emotional tie to.

How does one create something, out of nothing?