In the quiet of midnight kitchens, we don’t pray, we snack. Not to gods, but to cravings. Not with incense, but with sugar, and sometimes, that sacred object of worship is round, black and white, and whispers promises with every crunch.

The Oracle of Oreos speaks fluently in dopamine. It tells us, “Just one more,” then chuckles as we reach for four. We laugh too, mouth full, shame tucked behind the fridge door, because it’s funny, until it’s not. Until sugar isn’t a treat, but a tether. Until we realize the oracle isn’t telling us the future. It’s keeping us from it.

Addiction hides best in plain sight. Packaged sweetly. Sold with nostalgia. Marketed as comfort, but comfort isn’t found at the bottom of the sleeve. It’s found in liberation, when we stop asking the cookie for clarity and start listening to the body instead, because the real oracle isn’t in the cupboard. It’s in the silence between cravings. The stillness after the storm of sugar.

The strength to say, “I don’t need sweetness to know I’m whole.”