When I grow up, I want to be a little boy

When I was a kid, I would imagine that I had a gun with which I could shoot people I didn’t want alive. I’d take careful aim (one eye closed et al), point my forefinger at the culpable party, cock my thumb and pull the imaginary trigger. There were never any sound effects associated with any of the preceding or following actions so I reckon I had a silencer screwed on somehow. The victim would lie in a pool of imaginary blood and I would gloat in imaginary satisfaction for the rest of the day.

The following day, the victim would be resurrected, but my life would go on, unfettered. Their crime seemed immaterial now since I had purged their soul from pestilence through my little ritual.

With time, I seem to have lost my little imaginary gun. Or perhaps, I’ve lost my imagination. There are those that I want to shoot today. There are those I want to resurrect.

But most of all, I want that gun to shoot myself. To purge my soul. To be oblivious again. To be seven again…