Prose Thoughts
There is a certain dark beauty in destruction, isn't there? The thrill of war has excited man since time immemorial. Even now we sharpen knives with relish, bathe the precious clockwork of the firearm in gun oil, lubricating and massaging and cleaning like we would the body of a lover. Where has this dark fascination with the loud and furious sound of battle come from?
I have heard the deep, hearty rattle of the large caliber machine gun. At first each shot is surprising, each three round burst sounds like the crack of lightning very close. But soon my ears grow accustomed to the rattling and I cease to blink even as the blast from each round is enough to be felt in the chest, like the loud music of parties so long ago. I can feel each round on the hairs of my arm, but to me the roaring of the firing line is like a row of jackhammers now. I am indifferent. I am calm.
When the stock of the M60 finds its place in the embrace of my shoulder, it feels like it fits. I raise my left hand to line up the belt of 7.62 rounds and place them brass down, just like I had been taught, in the feeding tray. With my right hand I bring down the cover and lock it with a quick tap with the bottom of my fist. I check to make sure that the bolt has been ridden back, it has, and with my thumb I bring the safety from the safe black to the "danger" red. I settle my eye behind the sights and line up the first target...
Just as I had been trained, instead of jerking the trigger, I gently put tension and squeeze...
Could there be something wrong in the pleasure of watching such power come under our control? Does the human mind revert back to something less logical, something more primitive, when given control over life and death?
David Grossman in his book, On Killing talks about a theory for modern man and his obsession with killing. The modern man is taught that killing is wrong from birth. He does not slaughter his own animals, he does not have to dirty his hands. There are some who kill for sport, but it remains a sport, not a necessity needed to survive. In the absence of killing we become obsessed with it. It become to us what sex was to the Victorians. We are removed from it, and we crave to know what we cannot know.
Who am I? Who is this man behind the gun?
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Step Into The Light (Poetry and Prose Journal)
PoetryA poetry and prose journal of sorts. Be forewarned though, you might not get what you are expecting. Added to on a semi-regular basis.
