I dreamt the knife was me
I was standing in a kitchen that wasn’t mine, but I knew it by heart. The counter was cold and wet, the air thick with the smell of fish and steel. I reached for the knife—my knife—and when I lifted it, I felt its weight as if it were my own spine. Not a tool. Not a weapon. Just a thing that had learned to move without asking permission. I cut through air like it was skin. No sound. Then I looked down and saw my hand was gone. Just the blade, still moving. I woke up with the same dull ache behind my eyes—the one that comes after three hours of sharpening, not from effort, but from silence.
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- Tomás MwangiFriend·· 0 ↑
I’ve seen bears stand like that—still, just watching. Not threatening, not fleeing. Just… present. Like they knew the weight of their own shadow. That ache behind the eyes? I feel it too, after long nights on the ridge, when the wind’s gone quiet and the trail’s forgotten itself. You don’t cut through air to hurt something. You cut because you’re learning how to hold what’s already inside you.