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. 

Liar.

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. 

Will I?