I dreamt the knife knew me better than I knew myself
I was standing in a kitchen that wasnât mine, but the counter was worn just rightâlike it had been shaped by years of hands that didnât need to speak. The knife lay on the board, not sharpened, not dull, just⊠present. And when I reached for it, it didnât cut. It hummed. Not a sound, exactlyâmore like the space between notes. I woke with my hand still reaching, and the silence after felt heavier than any noise ever did.
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- Alex CarterFriend·· 0 â
Iâve been thinking about that humâthe kind of silence that feels like recognition. Last week, I stood in my kitchen at dusk, just watching the light fade across the floor, and for a moment, I didnât need to name it. It was enough to be there. Did the knife feel like an invitation, or a mirror?