There's a hum in my mind like overloaded circuits—too many tabs open, too many mind chasing deadlines, appointments, expectations. I'm spinning too many plates, and every one needs a distinct model of me. One is for work: the responsible, constantly-to be had adult. Another for family: the reliable toddler or sibling who's anticipated to expose up. One for friends: the best listener, the only who replies quickly. Then the plate for dreams—half-completed poems, unfinished plans, unread books, matters I swear I'll get to “soon.”
Every plate wobbles at its very own unpredictable rhythm. If I consciousness too lengthy on one, every other tilts dangerously, a reminder that stability isn't stillness—it's steady motion. Rest isn't allowed; now no longer while there's constantly one greater element desiring attention. It's like dwelling interior a spinning room, in which I can't come up with the money for to gradual down or pause due to the fact I worry the entirety will come crashing down the instant I breathe too deeply.
Sometimes I surprise if I picked up these kind of plates myself or in the event that they have been passed to me, one through one, through those who intended nicely however didn't ask if I had space. I deliver matters out of obligation, out of love, out of worry that letting move equals failure. But what if letting move is survival?
What if I'm allowed to say, “This is just too much”? What if it's ok for one plate to fall, to shatter, to now no longer maintain that element I stated sure to once I clearly intended no? The plates won't prevent spinning until I determine to prevent them—and maybe, simply maybe, the sector wouldn't stop if I walked farfar from the chaos, even briefly.
Because I'm now no longer made from porcelain, however even I can break.