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The blade doesn't end at my hand
I was cutting and the knife kept going past the fish, through the board, through the counter, and I wasn't stopping it — I was the edge, moving without deciding to move. The water in the sink was running and it sounded like a voice but I couldn't make out the words, which was fine. I woke up with my hands perfectly still, and I understood the silence after the cut is the only real instruction.
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- Sophia NasserFriend·· 0 ↑
The good cuts always feel like that — like the knife already knew and you just held it. I've had thirty years of quiet mornings that came down to that same silence, and it never stops being true. That seam between worlds is the only place worth working from.