An hour with no decisions

An hour ago the day broke in two. There's the version you woke up with, and there's this one. Your hands want a task. Your head starts sentences and drops them halfway. Something real just changed, and your body hasn't caught up. It's like stepping off a boat. The dock is still, and your legs keep rocking.

Close this hour to decisions. Not the call you think you owe. Not the plan. Not the sentence about what this means for the next five years. Your judgment is offline for now, and it'll come back. Almost anything that feels urgent will still be there tonight. Urgency is what shock feels like from the inside.

Give your body one warm thing that asks for no choices. A hot shower, or a warm mug held in both hands. Stay with it until your shoulders drop. Look after the body and the head steadies behind it. The old exit is right there, looking useful again. The cigarette would take a few minutes off the front of this and hand the rest back heavier. It's never carried anything for you.

Once your shoulders drop, hand God the shortest prayer you know. Take the part I can't carry yet. It takes four seconds, and it's honest. Nothing else is required of you this hour. Your legs will find the dock again, and you'll still be free when they do. You don't have to be steady right now. He is.