At 50, I find myself confronted with an unexpected turn in my lifelong path, one I never thought I’d walk. I have always been a peaceful soul, an ardent protester of war, and a firm believer that violence solves nothing. Never have I been in a fight, never has my hand been raised in anger. For as long as I can remember, I’ve rejected the tools of conflict, embraced pacifism, and believed in the power of words and reason. Yet, here I stand today, contemplating a different kind of power: the gun.
When my uncle passed, I inherited his gun collection, and with it came a deep, almost gravitational pull toward understanding this world. A gun is more than a tool of destruction—it is a symbol of power, decision, and finality. In a way, it's an heirloom like no other, one imbued with stories that transcend its metal and mechanics, quietly bearing witness to the hands it has passed through.
There is a reverence that a gun commands, not because of what it can do, but because of what it represents. Unlike money, whose value is dictated by fleeting markets, or even an atomic bomb, whose power is collective and remote, a gun is immediate. It is singular in its ability to demand respect, not from institutions, but from individuals. In your hand, it becomes an extension of your will, your choice. The finality of its power is undeniable, a point from which there is no retreat.
What strikes me most is that this power doesn’t corrupt. It doesn’t blemish my soul to appreciate the existence of a firearm. Rather, I see it now as part of a larger journey I’ve been curating my entire life—a settling into the realization that power, in its truest form, is not inherently evil. Power, when held responsibly, can be both protective and purposeful.
I find myself fascinated not just by the physicality of guns but by the stories they carry. A pistol in my hand is more than a weapon; it is an heirloom, a talisman, passed down through time, marked by the decisions and moments it witnessed. Unlike so many other objects, its presence is profound because it holds a duality—destruction and defense, chaos and control. It is this duality that calls to me, that makes me see the gun as a material manifestation of something deeper, more metaphysical.
In a world that lies constantly, bombards us with propaganda, and manipulates reality for its own ends, it becomes clear that the things they try to take from us are often the ones we should hold closest. The gun, in all its complexity, is one of those things. I once would have rejected it outright, a symbol of all I stood against. But now, I see its role as an object of autonomy, of singular decision-making. The profound respect it demands is real.
Perhaps this is the culmination of years of quiet introspection, the final chapter in a life spent seeking balance between power and peace. The gun is not an antagonist in this story; rather, it is a character in the long saga of human agency. It speaks to something primal and eternal—the desire to control one’s fate, to protect what matters, and to carry forward a legacy.
As I stand at this crossroads, I realize that embracing the existence of firearms doesn’t betray who I am. Instead, it is a recognition of the depth of responsibility, the weight of legacy, and the undeniable fact that power, in its most essential form, is a force that must be respected.
In my hand, the gun becomes something more: a material object, yes, but also a testament to the stories that shape us, the power that defines us, and the choices that, in the end, make us who we are.
