“I think murder should be as accessible as air. I think a smoking gun ought to replace smoke stacks when experiencing pollution. I think subjectively therefore every face I encounter, that advocates a sneer, is a potential killer; therefore I am a killer.”
Who said it? A disfigured survivor weary of reality after the attack?
Who said it? An impoverished inner-city dweller plagued by their circumstances?
Who said it? A tottering mind peering over the edge ready to leap?
Who said it? And who means it?
Humans aren’t convinced that random action dictates reality. We search for patterns through anecdotal examples to support translucent steel. When the menacing groan of folding steel infects the sound waves we panic and seek control. Guns offer control. Guns offer a place in history to rest bones and blood. Immortalizing trigger fingers beside fingers up in the air craving mercy. Guns are a promise kept. Guns are man’s invention. Guns are a Golden Calf shimmering under fluorescent lights. Guns are an American pastime.
We cannot murder our past no matter how hard we try. I guess that’s why popular consensus dictates that we shoot our way out. Sometimes the bullets miss and sprinkle a structure with polka-dot exit wounds. Sometimes people stare through the exit wounds and keep their vision compacted into a narrow cylinder. Sometimes people die and someone will remember the dead.
Someone always remembers the dead.