Hunger Games

In the dream I am in a wedding and right before I am to walk down the aisle someone gives me face wash which I apply liberally and then cannot remove. At first I look like a pasty whitish-gray ghost but then the face wash absorbs into my skin completely and I am a radiant, glowing, much younger looking version of myself. I still feel sticky but I smile like a lunatic anyway because for some reason I am a.) deeply unshakably happy, and b.) all out of fucks to give. I wake from my dream and I am truly actually smiling and I am not hungover and the full February Snow Moon is hovering like a wide pale buttercup disk outside my window. Sobriety is cratered with rough terrain, highs and lows, valleys and peaks, warm dark and cold light. But when you turn around and look over your past forty-six days of it from a far enough distance away you find it to be interestingly miraculously luminous. It is very brutal at times and it is very beautiful at others. But love is in all of it, that’s the trick. And maybe love – stripped of all the bullshit and hype they tried to sell it to you as – just means keep going.

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