Once upon a time there was a bookshelf. Although it was designed to store one row of books, overtime, additional weight had been added.
There were books on top of books, photographs, a bowl where loose change and spare keys were kept and a small carriage clock.
Despite carrying the additional load the bookshelf took the strain and carried on. It did this for years and years with nobody noticing that the weight was ever so slowly becoming too much.
One night when everyone was asleep the bookshelf finally broke. In the morning people would come and pick up the things that had fallen to the ground, they’d find other places for them. The bookshelf would be regarded as having failed, it would feel like it failed.
The bookshelf would eventually be fixed but it would never be quite the same again. There was a fragility about it now which meant it could only hold a few books, less than it was originally designed for.
In reality it was the bookshelf that had been failed. Too much had been asked of it, more than it was capable of. Nobody had noticed the pain it was in and the bookshelf didn’t know how to tell them until it was too late.
Please be kind to your bookshelves.