From the Journal of Faris Khan — On the Sun, the Knife, and What They Teach
A knife and the sun share a lesson most people miss.
Both are blamed for the wound they reveal.
Before the Forever Night, men spoke of the sun as mercy. They mistook warmth for kindness and light for permission. They lived carelessly because the world forgave them daily. When the sun vanished, they called it cruelty—as if truth had changed, rather than their shelter from it.
A knife does not create violence. It clarifies it.
When a blade is drawn, everything unnecessary falls away. Posture matters. Distance matters. Breath matters. You cannot argue with steel. You cannot sentimentalize it. The knife does not hate you. It simply answers the question you have already asked with your body.
Life is the same.
The sun once allowed men to move without consequence. The Night removes that luxury. Every step now carries weight. Every choice cuts something—time, trust, future, self. People curse the darkness because it forces them to feel the edge of their decisions.
I was taught that a blade should never be admired while idle. A knife on a table invites fantasy. A knife in motion demands honesty. It teaches you where you are weak, where you rush, where you cling to outcomes instead of balance.
The Night has done this to the world.
Those who survive here are not braver. They are cleaner. They waste less motion. They learn when to advance and when to remain still. They learn that intent must precede action, not follow it. The blade punishes hesitation masquerading as patience.
The Qur’an says, “And We made from water every living thing.” Water flows. It cuts stone not by force, but by persistence and alignment. A knife, when used correctly, does the same. It moves along the path already offered by the body it faces.
So too with the sun.
Its absence teaches what its presence concealed: life is not gentle, but it can be precise. Meaning is not given, but it can be maintained. Illumination is not warmth—it is exposure.
A skilled swordsman does not hate the blade. He listens to it. A wise man does not curse the Night. He studies what it reveals.
I do not long for the sun as I once did. Not because I have abandoned hope, but because I have learned what hope must endure without it. When the sun returns—if it returns—it will not save those who learned nothing in the dark.
The knife teaches restraint.
The sun taught indulgence.
The Night teaches accountability.
And accountability, though feared, is the only teacher that never lies.