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The book I never wrote

The book I never wrote, the book I always think of writing. Here I am hanging out strong, resiting the urge to just lay down as I suddenly feel so tired today. Went to pilates, went for lunch and I am trying to engage with my 16 weeks baby. Anyone who has tried it knows that is a hard task as you get smiles and giggles but not much more to keep you going. I resist the urge and decide to check my email. And there is an ad. One of those I never read but something caught my attention. It is the book I never wrote, the book about the experience in Mozambique, told by someone who has been in and out the last 10 years. 
My first thought is positive, I will buy it! I will make it a 2 in 1 and ask B to buy it as a birthday present. And now it has been 10 minutes since that email and it has sunk in. It is the book I never wrote. The book I started three times in different years, I believe 2004, 2008 and 2010, always with different approaches, but I never brought it to fruition. And that is only counting the books about Mozambique. My last one was so much more than that, and one that I really felt I would pull through, but then life gets in the way. And who is going to read it anyway. 
I am on mat leave and many times I looked at the different parts where i have my notes and scribbles. Many times I looked and thought this could be a good time. And then the thought goes with another feed, another whatsapp, another charity to do, another thing I have to do that always comes first. 
And I get hit by a sudden sadness. Will I ever write it. Will I ever write them. Will I ever get to dedicate time (that not in a tube or plane) to do something I have always loved? Does it even matter?
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