I smoke to sleep, not dream
I have smoked weed every day of my life for more than a decade, except holidays, some days abroad, and very few especially dreadful evenings at home. To be fair, every day is another excuse to never see one again, and no amount of drugs will make this country livable. But when I don’t smoke at night, I simply can not sleep. I stay up until the early hours of the morning, grieving the past day and life, anxious at daybreak, hating myself. Incapable of escaping the depressive position and the mourning it entails. (I always shit on this state when I’m engaged in paranoid-schizoid storytelling at an all-too-polite audience who giggles these voices away. They love watching me break down in their stead)
So, why would I choose to sleep poorly tonight, or not at all? If I asked you if you would want to spend a sleepless night, you’d likely interrogate how far you’d be willing to go. How many thousands would you spend every year? How many brain cells? In becoming addicted to weed, I have become addicted to sleep. And the price I pay goes deeper than any pocket. The price I pay for smoking weed every day to keep insomnia at bay is that I can’t dream.
I have, over the past two years, taken a decidedly large interest in psychoanalysis, and it is likely a compensatory gesture to make up for the fact that I have deliberately been repressing my very own unconscious theatre to the darkest depths of oblivion. I have sabotaged my symbolic world under the pretense of, you guessed it “my parents do it too”, thus proving Freud right and myself wrong, as I always end up doing. The guilt of having wrought this upon myself is mitigated by an immature need to split others into real or good, going on unwanted lectures on our wants and my lectures on them. I never say anything that’s not a cry for help: a wish to dream.
But why do I wish to dream? To understand myself better? To make myself a more improved and productive member of society? To synthesize lucid dreaming with porn? Why do I want to dream? I often ponder if it’s the fear of missing out on what lies beyond my immediate reality, digital and analog alike. Maybe weed is my anti-therapy. It makes me yawn in the afternoons and cut my days short for nights I always regret.
