Overexposure

There is a point in the ascent where the brightness stops illuminating and starts burning. It happens gradually, then all at once — the moment when the light that once felt like clarity becomes something harsher, sharper, more invasive. This is the stage of the upward weather I call overexposure.

It’s not dramatic.

It’s not catastrophic.

It’s simply too much.

The world becomes brighter than it should be. Not metaphorically — literally. Light feels louder. Colors feel aggressive. The edges of objects feel too defined, as if someone has turned up the contrast on reality without my consent.

My senses stop helping me and start overwhelming me.

The refrigerator hum becomes a drone I can’t tune out.

The ticking of a clock becomes a metronome inside my skull.

The sound of my own breathing feels amplified.

Even silence feels crowded.

This is the part of the ascent where my mind is no longer just fast — it’s porous. Everything gets in. Every sound, every thought, every sensation, every possibility. There is no filter, no buffer, no dimmer switch. The world arrives at full volume.

The brilliance that felt empowering an hour ago now feels like glare.

My thoughts, once sharp and exhilarating, begin to multiply too quickly. They overlap, collide, interrupt each other. They don’t feel chaotic — not yet — but they feel relentless. There is no pause between them, no breath, no space to evaluate or discard. Every idea feels urgent. Every impulse feels necessary. Every connection feels like a command.

This is the moment where the mind stops being a tool and becomes a flood.

I can feel the shift in my body too. My heartbeat, which had settled into a quickened rhythm, now feels like it’s vibrating. My breathing becomes shallow, not from panic but from pace. My muscles feel wired, as if they’re bracing for movement even when I’m standing still.

My hands move constantly — tapping, adjusting, straightening, reaching. My body becomes a conduit for the excess energy, trying to discharge it through motion.

This is not restlessness.

This is overflow.

Overexposure is the point where the upward weather stops being sustainable. It’s where the brilliance becomes brittle. It’s where the confidence becomes sharp. It’s where the internal light becomes something I have to squint against.

I start to lose track of time.

Not in a dreamy way — in a mechanical way.

Minutes disappear.

Hours compress.

Tasks blur into each other.

I move from one thing to the next without finishing, not because I’m distracted, but because the next thing feels more urgent than the last. Urgency becomes the only metric. Momentum becomes the only logic.

This is the part of the ascent where I begin to feel slightly outside myself — watching my own movements with a detached awareness, as if I’m observing someone else’s speed from a few inches behind my own eyes.

My children notice this stage too.

Not with fear — with caution.

They speak more softly.

They move more slowly.

They watch me the way people watch a bright light — not because it’s dangerous, but because it’s unpredictable.

Overexposure is not the peak.

It’s the warning.

It’s the moment when the upward weather reveals its cost.

The moment when the brilliance becomes unsustainable.

The moment when the sky stops lifting me and starts blinding me.

This is the truth of the ascent:

the same light that sharpens can also scorch.

And overexposure is the first sign that the sky is about to turn.

And this is always the sign — the moment when the upward weather stops expanding and starts tightening. The brightness that once felt like illumination becomes something harsher, more directional, more demanding. It’s not collapse. It’s not panic. It’s the first hairline fracture in the sky.

It begins with a flicker in my focus.

A split-second hesitation.

A thought that arrives too fast and then dissolves before I can hold it.

Not a mistake — a misfire.

The mind doesn’t slow.

It stutters.

Just enough for me to feel the shift.

My hands keep moving, but my thoughts begin to outrun even themselves. Ideas arrive in fragments instead of sentences. Connections spark and vanish. The internal light that once felt clean now feels scattered, refracted, as if it’s hitting too many surfaces at once.

This is the moment where brilliance becomes glare.

My senses, already sharpened, start to feel abrasive. The hum of the refrigerator becomes a pressure point. The brightness of the window feels like it’s pressing against my skull. Even my own voice sounds too close, too loud, too present.

The world hasn’t changed.

My capacity to absorb it has.

This is the hinge — the quiet, invisible threshold where overexposure stops being a heightened state and becomes a destabilizing one. The point where the upward weather begins to turn on itself.

I can feel the instability forming at the edges.

Not enough to pull me down.

Just enough to tilt me further up.

This is the moment the sky stops lifting me and starts losing its structure.

The moment where the ascent becomes unsustainable.

The moment where the light begins to fracture.

The moment where the next chapter begins.