Writing not smoking

Last night I dreamt and remembered it for the first time in years.

In my slumber I studied Amy Winehouse’s vocal range and sang the Frank album beginning to end in her own way. I learnt that in order to sing like Amy one must reach a level of sadness and sincerity I’m not sure I could handle.

Thank God/baby/higher power I am sober tonight.

I’ve missed dreaming. The indulgence of night-long ruminations made up of nonsensical narratives always pulled away a second too soon by the time morning comes around. That’s the good stuff.

Maybe it’s that longing we gain from a dream-filled REM sleep that accounts for the day-to-day motivation of a regular non-smoker?

Progesterone is high. My skin is clear, mind’s still racing, boobs are growing, and my baby is rejecting weed cravings – the scent’s just changing for the greater good.

So maybe the lesson is simple: I don’t need smoke to feel alive. I don’t need to chase a high when I’ve already got one growing inside me, rewiring my dreams, reshaping my body, sharpening my voice.

Sobriety isn’t the absence of something anymore, it’s the presence of everything I used to sleep through.