I held the knife for a long time, in my thoughts. I felt its weight in my hand. I watched the overhead light glint off the smooth blade as I turned it back and forth. I considered the damage it would inflict and the possibility that cutting would do nothing but make me bleed. However, I also considered the possibility that it would solve all of my problems.
Neither the fear of pain nor the queasiness in the presence of blood were enough to stay my hand. Doubt that it would do anything to alleviate the gnawing within my soul kept me from reaching for the knife, though. The risk of failure wasn’t worth the potential reward.
Still, nothing venture nothing gained, I continued to think upon the blade from time to time. It may not end up being a perfect solution but as the days passed and all other potential remedies fell to the wayside, it remained as an untested potential. There was hope it could work, and hope is supremely powerful.
One day, exhausted and delirious, I may just reach for the knife and hack off the part of me that clouds my mind and confuses my emotions. I would remove that pound of flesh and lay it upon the altar of all who I have wronged over the long and bleak years of my life. There, bathing in blood and tears, I will ask for forgiveness.
Will I receive it? No, almost certainly not. But at that point I’ll be too far gone to understand or care that the gesture was meaningless. In my delusion perhaps I’ll feel forgiven and finally be at peace. The knife might be the only way.