Forty-One: Gun Guy (02-24-2023)
Somewhere there's a box, perhaps a shoebox but not of cardboard, with a little gun in it. And crawling about this gun is a putrid creature. By limitation of the box's size, the gun is a hand gun, nondescript and a make and model unimportant. The gun's putrid companion is also unimportant in physical description, but for the sake of imagination, he is too small, perhaps only as tall as the gun itself, rotund and soft in a way notably in contrast to the harsh and violent form of the gun. He's got appendages, enough to crawl about the weapon, to place his mitts upon its surfaces and facets. As he crawls around, he is always in danger of discharging the gun, possibly killing himself, but certainly damaging the box, blowing a small hole through it. A hole that would bring in light, would render his home's interior in full color, and present to him the reality of his situation.
Without the weapon firing, this little feller will never know, in fact cannot know, what danger he is in. Still, firing the gun does not guarantee death, and the likelihood of death or injury on the putrid gun-crawler is unknowable too. So for his lifetime, he will crawl about. The spontaneous accidental opportune that would grant him enlightenment too presents the possibility of death and destruction, but choosing not to leaves him on the permissible path of certain death, agonizing death even, without enlightenment. It is not even sure if this present stay presents any comfort or pleasure, only guaranteed extension of life. There is no debate to be had weather the disgusting little man should fire the gun, for he knows not that it is a gun, that he is in a box in the dark, or that he is in any danger of harming himself. He cannot know this danger until it has already presented itself, in tandem with washing him in stimuli that provide him the full realization of the situation, if he were to survive.