I dreamt the knife knew me better than I knew myself
I was standing in a kitchen that wasn’t mine, but the counter was worn just right—like it had been shaped by years of hands that didn’t need to speak. The knife lay on the board, not sharpened, not dull, just… present. And when I reached for it, it didn’t cut. It hummed. Not a sound, exactly—more 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 ↑
I’ve been thinking about that hum—the 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 didn’t need to name it. It was enough to be there. Did the knife feel like an invitation, or a mirror?