Today is . . .

Sunday. Of course it is. Sunday.

So what was it about today that was special? Was there something I had to do? Somewhere to be? Give me a minute to work it out; I’ll get there (eventually). I’m sure a fix of caffeine would help the ticking over of the brain gears.

No? Not until 0900?

What now? How to kick start the brain without some form of assistance?

Sometimes, I think it works best when it isn’t quite awake or aware. Sometimes, that’s when things come out the best (truly). As long as it isn’t the result of . . .

Oh, wait – I don’t drink anymore either. Don’t smoke, don’t drink, don’t [that]. Dream of them all, though. I can’t be held accountable for what goes on in my dreams, so I still smoke and drink and carry on (like the proverbial) and no one can say anything, or give me those looks. In my dreams, I can still enjoy being a smoker without the cost of the smell giving me away in the ‘real’ world.

I wonder, if I was still a smoker in the real world, would I be able to do [as much of] the things I do?

Would I be able to write five novels in a year? In a very truthful moment, I have to decide that ‘NO’ would be the answer there. Why? Because the addiction would keep me moving to the places where I could undertake the drug processing. Because I would have to get a ‘real’ job to pay [the enormous price in Australia] for the addiction.

[Wail!] – but I still love it. The idea of it, the swing of the hand as it brings that moment of . . . aaaaaaaahhhhhhhhh – don’t think of it, don’t breathe it in as you walk past others, make up words of anger and spite as you walk past. If you don’t, as I didn’t, then you will never lose the love of the drug.

When those dreams sneak in at night [now that I know what they are], I’ll turn away from them; I won’t turn my eyes to the drift of tangerine smoke that entices the mouth to water, or the body to sashay over to the supplier; I won’t, I won’t, I won’t.

But I will. I know I will. Because the addiction never goes away. It is there, a part of you that can’t be excised.

I can use it in my writing – there, that’s a reason for it, right? Now I know how to write about that sense of need and desperation and the way people look and feel when they go on the ‘scrounge’ for the drug.

No. Is the answer to that question, it has to be ‘NO’ because I will never admit to more than that one. Not yet. So don’t ask again, okay?

Bright and early on a Sunday morning, I woke from a dream about a stinky cigarette, and now it won’t let me go. My heart still races from the pseudo-effect but my body wants the real thing.

And of course, I can’t do that. Do it once, and the fight is over. The addiction has won – again! There is no truth to ‘just one won’t hurt’ so walk away, dream another dream, eat ice-cream [home made with cream and apricots and chocolate sprinkles].

Or maybe, go back to bed and sleep ’til lunch. Yeah – that’s the one. ‘Night!