I have no will. I have no curiosity.
“The attention to detail showcases the smooth pen of the author”
Of its own, a finger is passing with barely a touch along the blade until suddenly, catching on a spot, it halts. Rust, perhaps. I raise my hand over to the light, careful not to tighten my hold over the thing. A cold shine can be seen in intervals, shooting up and down between my fingers along the metallic handle. I can sense the edge.
I can see my wrist, a vein twisting through it with a hard pulse. I can see the delicate lines guessing their way across the skin. How frail is life. Better close your eyes. Close your eyes, I say. Do it.
I close my eyes and with a light, effortless relief, my thoughts are lifted from the moment. They are lifted, turning over the edge, cutting up and away. I have no will. I have no curiosity. I have no blood. I am no longer here.
Ben in The White Piano
The segment above, which I wrote at a time in my life that was extremely difficult, was something I thought too personal to share. So was the large oil painting I painted around the same time.
However, a few years later I reread it. This time I could sense the pain--but this time, to my surprise, it was separate from me: as if I had put it in a glass jar, closed the lid and examined it from outside. Quite a strange sensation... So when my protagonist Ben fell on hard times at a certain point in my novel, I let him borrow these words. He whispered them as he stood there, watching his father's cut-throat blade in the small bathroom of the place where he had grown up.
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Volume I: My Own Voice
Volume II: The White Piano
Volume I & II, woven together: Apart from Love