by Uvi
July 2004

I have no will. I have no curiosity.

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.

Uvi Art Gallery