The other day I found myself thinking I might like to have a gun. Not to shoot, it, of course—well, maybe. It was the gun as a piece of intricate, precision machinery that attracted me. Delicate mechanisms, superbly honed, flawlessly fitted, I could almost feel the pleasure of its balance in my hand.
It would be a small gun; a derringer, wasn’t that a lady’s gun? Something with a mother-of-pearl inlay. Almost like a piece of jewelry.
I remember when I bought my first—and so far only—pocket knife. The handle separated lengthwise and folded around to encapsulate the blade. Such a powerful feeling it gave me to hold it.
So what’s the attraction of the gun?
Just having it, I say.
It’s power. The pocket knife, upgraded.
I have to tell you that this desire, springing to mind as I came to the end of a peaceful walk with my dog, astonished and horrified me. Yet, I saw quite suddenly the beauty of a firearm, the way gun enthusiasts describe it. A small thing, so exquisitely precise as to be considered almost delicate—yet still deadly.
There was no redeeming value for me. And I knew if I possessed it, I would fire it. It had to be so; else why would it call to me?
Perhaps I am a firearm, compact, deceptively put together, masking my true form and purpose behind attractiveness. Perhaps humanity is a firearm, waiting to go off. But the trigger is so often pulled by some childish hand—and the world is never the same.
Desire rising. I heard a radio interview last night with a Jewish Biblical scholar. She said God desired Desire. And humanity was born.
Every time I feel desire, I am God.
Only God did something about it.