I will defend you whether or not I am armed, but some people don’t have the choices and fortune I do. For example, a paraplegic man in a wheelchair.

Those who want to carry firearms should be subject to more stringent rules, however, if they intend to carry a weapon that makes it so simple to be lethal. The people I know who carry firearms understand the rules, and live by them, so this shouldn’t be difficult for them. But why should we not create a negative incentive for those who do not live a life worthy of the privilege?

Is it a fundamental human right to own a weapon, particularly a firearm? That is the actual question at stake. It is certainly a fundamental right that a living being should be allowed to live free from harm.

We don’t extend this right to most animals or plants; should that enter into our discussion here?

We don’t create a world where we are free from disease, the infringement of that one basic right by bacteria, viruses, and problematic genetic. Do bacteria have the right to live free from harm?

We don’t seem to understand that ISIL is now fighting the way America did against the British, the way all freedom fighters assault a larger, more technologically advanced enemy who seems bent on their destruction. Should we allow ISIL the right to live free from harm?

Should I carry a gun so that I can fire on an assailant? Is it the only way to stop them? Isn’t an ounce of prevention worth a pound of cure?

Is this a question of escalation? That is, once we know people are armed, will there have to be a new way for criminals to assert their dominance over such a population?

Is is true, really true, that a mentally ill individual (not a criminal for whom the gains are reasonable) will get a gun no matter what they have to do? I could legally buy a gun to kill myself in those moments of doubt, but I don’t. My reason? It’s too much of a hassle. Anecdotal.

It’s a complicated topic, obviously.

No one would have blamed Heath for wanting the bauble. It sat with delicate weight on the pedestal and gleamed with inviting indifference. Although it flashed light onto his face whenever he moved near it, this was true of most treasure. Treasure attracts the senses. This tiny happiness for which he had searched bore all the signature traits of sin. He coveted it, he lusted for it, he wanted, badly, to steal it from its owner. With his artful, almost poetic sophistry, he even argued himself into believing that it wanted to be stolen — nay, freed — from its comfortable pillow, nestled in an embrace of sunlight from above.

“I would wear this trinket proudly,” he thought, “I would make sure everyone saw it. I would even share it, if it wanted to be shared. People could take turns wearing it, so long as they returned it by the end of the day, so I could spend my nights in adoration. I would never tire of gazing at it, of caressing it.”

As his fingers extended to touch the facade of the bauble, however, a deep sadness suddenly made him feel heavy. Heavy and weak. How many such objects had he touched in the past? How many had he stolen? Yet, here he stood, with child-like petulance, ready for another. He remembered then, the trophy case he had built, foggy now with dust each time he walked past it. And there, on the mantle, the clock he had built. Intricate gears which represented infinite care, its housing etched with carved grooves and careless gashes. In the yellow glow of his home, he heard its soothing, reliable tick.

The bauble fairly hummed now, chirping delight as his fingers tickled its gemmed surface, shivering under his breath.

He stepped back from the pedestal and the walls of the room warped and wobbled. He felt ill, and he began to dig the pads of his fingers into his temples, tearing his own flesh with funereal purpose. As his vision blurred from pain and the red wash of blood making a dire concoction with his tears, he could hear the chime of the hour.