Knights and Knives

I don't know what is more difficult: the pain or the recovery.

After being stabbed on an open wound, you would only think a hundred times before using a butter knife. You will use a spoon, even a fork, but every knife will remind you of the stab. Each memory will roll like a series of flashback, every picture quickly succeeded by another, minute details of intricate details of each blow. You relive every moment as if the then is now.  It speeds up the heart rate but nobody can hear it beside yourself.  The chest is burdened with pounds of guilt and courage, only you know the serpentine breath struggling to come out of your lungs. Your hands prepare to fight, because the last time they betrayed you to fright. Your legs prepare to stand more firmly if that's possible. All you know is the knife can hurt you anytime. The sharp knives will show mercy and bleed you till you pass out; the blunt ones will make vain attempts, but will leave marks for you to feel the terror again in future.  Your eyes will be the only ones to window any feeling. If you are gutted, the eyes will stay shut and dry.  If you are rooted, your eyes will speak the language of mercy or fierceness; either way, your pillows, will stain. You would wish your menstruation to kick in and divert the pain to where it can bleed without question. A psycho-rigor mortis sets in your whole system.  You can feel your ribs being thumped by the ambitious blood pumping organ. Your guts decide to not let butterflies flutter again in them. These are the butterflies that turn into green-eating caterpillars. You will keep the tissue box close your bed, because you don't know when the knife will walk into your home and lie on your bed. The knife will always serve you first, before it will sever you. 

After many congested passages of foul, rotten air, the egregious silhouette will give way. You will understand some knifes don't belong to the butcher. You will love lemon tea as first thing in the morning.  You will know the knives at your table are safe to dine with. You will appreciate how extraordinarily it is helpful to slice your garlic bread without crumbs. You will appreciate the shinning silver.  

How do you feel? Better. You wouldn't know if the better is good enough. You will choose humble food over cuisine, and carelessly complain of lack of flavour. You have always wanted your table to be exquisite. The lucid soup won't hold your tongue in awe for long. You will look at your silver. You will travel away from home and bask in sun. You will gladly take pictures of your vacation spots. You will enjoy the evening walk...it will lead you to a stranger who will offer to buy you a drink. You will politely decline, and he will apologize. He will amend his head on behaviour; little will you know that he is falling head over heels for you and can't wait to be with you. You will accept his invitation. You will love the custom made music, the flamboyant atmosphere, the jolly people around and he looking in awe at you.  That's the moment you fall in love with him.  That's the moment you know it's meant to be. He will shower his affection on you like a rain falling hard. That's when he instructs the waiter to serve the delicacies and set the table. You see the knife placed beautifully between the plate and the spoon. That's when you know that the rain is on a drought depression; every drop will be soaked in, rendering the land dry and empty again. You will put a smile and continue to enjoy the food. He would barely notice that you managed to finish without having used the knife. 

The knife will always be there. Like a chapter gaping from a book well read. Even the slightest of breeze will open the pages even if you would be looking for another book. Some books you can't throw away. Books are always precious, nevertheless. Every time you will read a new book, every time you will sit for a new cuisine, you will find the pages gaping, the knives hurting.

You will learn to handle the knives better. May be you will challenge yourself to prepare a full course by yourself.  But the knives will be knives.  The either cut you or tear you apart, sometimes you cry, sometimes you bleed.