The forecast from inside the flare

Still there. It was there when you woke up, and it'll be there when you try to sleep. Pain that won't end wears down the part of you that decides things. By evening, even small choices feel like too much. You're tired in a way rest doesn't touch.

You've got two things on you right now, and they're not the same. One is the pain. It's real, and you're already carrying it, hour by hour. The other is the panic riding on top of it, insisting it'll be exactly like this forever. The pain is today. Forever is a forecast, written from inside the flare.

Some of what you miss was never nicotine. It was the ceremony around a bad hour. The pause. The step away. A few minutes that belonged to you. Take those minutes back tonight. Lie on the floor with your legs up on the couch, or put heat where it hurts. The cigarette claimed that pause, but it was always yours.

God can take the honest version. I'm worn down, and I don't understand this. That's a complete prayer. People have been bringing Him complaints about their bodies since the Psalms, and He stays. Your doctor needs to hear about the tiredness too, not only where it hurts. You don't have to be well tonight. Here and free is enough.