This stack of bricks lay in front of my house for more than a month, it is gone now, but not without leaving me a little unsettled about my latent tendencies.
Whenever I see a pile of bricks like this, I want to sneak real close to it, and steal a few of them. I know nobody will catch me — they’re always unguarded, these bricks are. I could use them for several things at home. Grow moss on them. use them as sturdy bases for the umpteen tin boxes my parents have stored on my rooftop, put them somewhere so that I could admire their colour. Well, I do like their colour. It is exciting to know all that one could do with stolen bricks. Gloating on one’s criminal achievement is another extremely handy pick-me-up.
I do have a criminal instinct, I think. I’ve known it for a while. An instinct for thievery. Not the shoplifter kind. Not the kleptomaniac kind (although the admiration with which I look at people’s tchotchke when I visit their drawing rooms just might give them the impression that I might have it). But rather a petty thief kind. Like when you go to an orchard and see an apple and know that it is not permitted to pick one, you will. Or, you visit a person’s house and you see a shiny, cheap piece of glass you take a fancy for and cleverly put it in your pocket. That kind, I am afraid.
Do you have a criminal instinct, you think? If yes, what kind? Would you tell me?