5 spoons a day

I wake up already counting.

Not hours, 

not plans,

not what I want it to be, 

but what I can afford.

Five spoons sit quietly in my hands,

invisible, but heavy with decisions. 

Each one have already spoken for 

before the day has even begun.

One for getting out of bed

without rushing my body

into something it’s not ready to be.

One for getting dressed,

choosing softness over expectation,

buttons over breath.

One for leaving the house, 

which is never just leaving,

its noise, light, people, 

a world that doesn’t notice 

what it takes to enter it.

That’s three.

Two left

Do I spend one on conversation?

On smiling at the right moments, 

on catching words before they slip past me, 

on staying present when my body 

is already negotiating exist?

Or do I save it for the journey home

for the crash I know is coming, 

the silence I’ll need to rebuild 

what’s been spent?

There is no right answer, 

only trade offs.

Because five spoons doesn’t stretch.

It doesn’t care about plans

or expectations

or who you’re supposed to be.

It just is.

And when they’re gone,

they’re gone, 

not dramatically, 

just a quiet emptying

where everything becomes heavier

than it should be. 

Still, I learn to make something

out of what I have.

To move slower,

choose carefully,

rest without apology.

Because this is not less of a day. 

It is just a different one.

Measured not in productivity, 

but in presence.