Suppokku

I bought the knife a year ago.
I told them that It was a piece of art,
worthy of acquiring.
I smiled and told them it would not,
under any circumstance,
be used to draw blood, or inflict harm.
And with that, They let me keep it.
I bound it in red string,
across the hilt,
so as to be a measure,
however small,
of the power it held.
All my life,
I have bowed to the will of others.
My family,
My friends,
My Love,
my Despair.
All control me without a second thought,
No more concerned with my mind,
than one might regard an ant stealing sugar.
And so I, too am bound with string,
that I dare not break, for their sakes,
yet cannot relinquish the shears,
for, in doing so,
I am no longer a person.
In doing so,
I become a tool,
to be once used,
then cast aside.
Such is a fate I would avoid,
or rather die before succumbing to.
In this way, the tool of death,
the purpose for which it is forged,
becomes secondary.
For though the strings binding me,
strong as they are,
do not exist in truth,
I must let them bind me.
But, in my hand,
I must have the means to break them,
lest I lose all meaning I have.
For the ultimate control,
one I must not surrender to anyone,
Is that of my life,
and, by extension, death.
For if I allow myself to be slain,
by my own hand,
due to the malice of the world,
Or to pass of old age of another's will,
too bound to live freely,
I have committed a dishonorable act,
in permitting myself to be used,
then cast aside,
when my usefulness is outlived,
For then I am no more a person,
than the blade which I carry.
For with the blade is my self.
In it is the power none can take from me.
The power of knowing,
should I will It,
that I could unsheath it,
and plunge it into myself,
to bring peace to my weary heart,
and none could undo it.
Such is the power I desire.
That despite the chains,
which, like the strings,
people have woven into my being,
I can deny them.
The blade is a reminder,
an elegant, constant reminder,
that I have the last choice,
that regardless of their machinations,
I can foil them all,
I control my own destiny,
I am my own person,
not the will of someone else.
And, If I choose,
I can deny them the taste of victory,
let them howl when their plans come undone,
feel their anger when they realize that,
in spite of how they seemingly broke me,
how I bowed to them in submission,
I have never given up.
I have never surrendered.
That, though I bowed,
I retained my honor.
I did not cower,
but rather chose to accept,
in all cases,
that which they gave me.
That I bowed to better my life,
to better the lives of those around me,
rather than let them control me.
In this way, the blade,
an Inescapable fate,
has been my most serene freedom.
For even should I never use it,
I will see it, 
and be reminded.
That, like the strings about its hilt,
I am unbroken.
Though I could have given up,
I never unsheathed it.
I never let them force me to break,
I stood tall when all seemed for naught.
And, seeing it,
I might feel resolve once more.
That life had not controlled me,
But rather I had chosen to control life.
I had been the one who directed it,
taking in stride its changes and woes.
I had conquered life.
So that, when I am old,
and death hangs about my fading eyes,
I can look once more to the knife,
and be glad,
that I had never used it,
that I had not surrendered to life,
or another, to reach my age,
but rather I had lived,
lived my life happily,
lived my life to the fullest.
So that, when the time came,
I could give the knife,
red strings unbroken,
to my son or daughter,
and tell them its meaning,
to give them hope too,
that they could remain unbroken as I did.
To me, even as I hold it now,
the knife has,
and always will be,
the most important measure of control.
Even should I die of its cold bite,
I can die knowing It was I,
I who chose to die,
to die with honor intact,
than be paraded for pity,
a footnote.
I have died for honor.
Such is the way I follow.