A forecast nobody ever checks

Tonight's forecast, according to the urge. Tense by eight. Snapping at everyone by nine. Lying awake at midnight, restless and miserable. It says all of it with total confidence, like it's already been there and come back. It isn't the wanting that sells it. It's the certainty.

Check its record. Think back to a night it made this call and you got through anyway. What did nine o'clock look like? Maybe a little restless. Maybe short on patience. Mostly it was dinner, something on a screen, and an ordinary night. The disaster it promised never turned up. And the forecaster never had to issue a correction.

Set a timer for ten minutes right now, and name it Forecast Check. This craving will peak and pass within minutes. It can't keep that volume up all evening, so it borrows authority from a night that hasn't happened yet. It's forecasting a whole night it won't be around to see.

When the timer goes, check the sky. See how much of that certainty is still standing. God's already in tonight. The urge only gets to guess about it, and its record isn't good. Go have the ordinary evening it swore you couldn't.