Loud alarm, empty parking lot

Your head is loud. The room you're in isn't. The craving has filled every inch of your mind, and that's what makes it feel like a fact instead of a feeling. When the pull is all inside, the way out is outward. Stop studying it. Look up from this screen. Everything you need for the next minute is already in front of you.

Name five things you can see, out loud or under your breath. The chipped edge of a table. A cable tangled behind the TV. A smudge on the light switch. Get specific enough that you have to look twice. Then four things you can hear. Three you can touch, like your sleeve, the chair under you, the phone in your hand. Ninety seconds, and no mood required.

Attention runs single file. While it's taking inventory, it can't rehearse giving in. The urge shrinks once it stops being the only thing in the frame. In this room, right now, nothing's on fire. It's a car alarm going off in an empty parking lot. Loud, and nobody's breaking in. The cigarette dressed up every alarm as an emergency only it could fix.

Go around again if the first pass only half took. There's no wrong way to name a lamp. You're practicing something bigger than one urge. You're putting your attention where you decide it goes. God's in this room with you, and He's in no hurry. The alarm's winding down, and nobody broke in.