Right on the edge of three weeks clean. Seems longer. No real hunger during the day to find a hookup. All the triggers have been taken off the guns. Is the desire there? Yes. It will never go away. You walk around with the hook in your brain for the rest of your life. But you find new props, ways to occupy your time. Behind every work of art lurks a spectre of boredom. Got to do something before I die besides stare at the tear in the curtain for five hours, watching the play of light, seeing caravels sailing across the Pacific, feeling the desert breeze in the shadows of the seraglio. You know, might as well write some of the dreams down.
I remember this comic book called Miracle Man. About this guy, Michael Moran, who feels like his life is empty, nothing seems right, has these dreams of being a comic book superhero. Then he discovers that by saying a particular "trigger" word - kimota (atomic backwards) - he trades his fragile human body for a superhuman one. Eventually, he discovers that the comic book reality was an allegory meant to keep him from realizing his true nature. He becomes a god and the comic book series reached a place where art and language come to a dead end.
In dreams, the drug is still there. The hook working its way around in the depths of my mind. Scenarios of "plenty", giant quantities, never ending hits, the pipe dreams of every junky. Elaborate arabesque deals are played out. The hunt was always part of the game. Laying it all out like a game of chess. Twenty moves ahead. In dreams, the triggers are still there. When I dream a hit, I dream what god thinks as he watches us go through the old bone dance of our sad grey lives. Cold wet flesh twisting in the wind on propped up skeletons. Scarecrows to keep the birds of appetite at bay, to frighten us not into waking up from the nightmare, but to keeping us asleep within it.