Using Dreams and Dead People

An unfinished piece written March 6, 2019.

I dream of heroin, which is strange because it was never my drug of choice. I wake sweaty and tangled, my heavy breathing amplified in the kind of silence only 3 am can bring. The craving hits so hard that if it were in front of me right now, I would take it into my body as thoughtlessly as I gulp water after ???. Years of sobriety really mean nothing, it’s the single moments of each day that count.

I lay back down, half wishing I could drift off into the same dream. A freebie, I think. No, heroin was never my drug of choice. But it was yours.

I’ve been thinking about choices a lately.

I am slowly exploring these memories, probing them gently, waiting for a familiar pain. The fact that it doesn’t come feels like being able to touch fire without being burned.

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