  Its a Saturday morning, damp out, still early, the day filled with expectation as if Im about to suit up for an early soccer match. I dreamt last night that I was playing, fluid play, the kind of soccer thats so clean and well executed you could fall back in the grass and laugh at how good you are. I dreamt of my teammates, the girls, the camaraderie of the fight to win and be better. I conjured up all the anticipation of those matches, the zone I slip into, the same place I go to in my head when Im writing well. What I wouldnt do to be sitting before a trainer getting my ankles taped, staring blankly at the grass breathing slowly and deliberately to steady my focus.
Firing away shots and the keeper to warm her up and intimidate the opposition. Disappointment that my body is broken and Ive lost all of that for good has me in tears this morning. I still cant believe that part of me is gone. Think Ill pose as a meth addict and clean the house today. Part of me is afraid to get into it, waiting for the inevitable moment when I start to lose myself and I cant stop because its never clean enough. I dont know whether I was like this before I started using drugs or what. Cleaning, like writing, can have an effect of frantic addiction.
I cant stop. I slip into this tight focus, like a racehorse being whipped along. Like the nights when I start drinking next to my laptop and I seem to be in a race with myself to put them down as systematically as the sentences that come out. God, its a challenge to live within the bounds of being an addict. Id better take a pain pill now so that when Im up to my elbows in bathroom cleaners and the tailbone is throbbing, Ill at least not care that it hurts.
When Im on my knees ordering my shoes according to colour and style and frequency of wear (its a complicated equation), Ill know that Ill be able to walk in them by the end of the day. Focus. Its a tricky one to master. Always bordering on excess. Wheres the line between doing it and doing too much? 
