The dream where you gave in

You had one in your hand. An ordinary place, an ordinary day, a cigarette between your fingers like it had always been there. Then your eyes opened, and it stayed real for a few seconds. You ran the checks. Did I? When? No. Relief came, but guilt got there first. Now it's sitting on the whole morning like you did something.

You didn't do anything. A dream isn't a confession, and it isn't a forecast. While you sleep, your brain sorts what it's finished with. It takes a big, well worn chunk of your life and packs it into storage. Packing is noisy work. Vivid dreams show up for lots of people coming off nicotine. This one was the packing, not the wanting.

The first waking second is worth keeping. Before you were awake enough to be disciplined, your gut answered. Dread, then relief that it wasn't real. That wasn't a decision. It was a reading from the part of you that never performs for anyone. And the guilt? That's the cigarette sending an invoice for something you never did.

If it happens again, say the plain fact on your way to the kitchen. That was a dream, and I didn't. Then walk into your day and let the guilt go hungry. God already handed you a clean morning. These dreams tend to thin out with time. Before you were even awake, your heart was glad to be free.