Destroying What You Love: on quitting liquor and smokes for 45 days
Yesterday marked 45 days without cigarettes or alcohol. It’s hard for me to believe I’m saying this, but I don’t miss it. Even gin’s bright juniper-mist voice falls on deaf ears. It’s like when you finally get rid of a boyfriend you knew was bad for you but you thought you couldn’t live without so you kept at that same tired old ruinous rusted busted emptied-out bone-weary relationship, but once you finally cut the ties and enact a strict no-contact rule, after a while, you wonder why you ever thought you couldn’t live without that person. You shake your head, perplexed, when you examine that disfigured bloody corpse of a horse you both beat into the ground. How did we let our once glorious communion come to such a state as this?
And I’m not saying alcohol and cigarettes are inherently bad. Lord no. They were just bad for ME. And in my new found clarity of soul and unmuffled head, I remembered something that I will advise you to remember:
As one of America’s truest masters of poetry, Galway Kinnell, wrote: