Saturday, August 26, 2017

You Are Nought But A Pen With Free Will 1111

Suppose you had a pen you had created with a will of it's own, and every time you tried to write something good, the pen thought it could write something better but only by making things so much worse, for all but it's self.

Not that it was of ill intention.

It was simply unaware of the vast amount of variables that need to be calculated in order to determine an outcome benevolent to each and all, while all believe they are making right choices, yet none know the blank pages are coming to an end and there isn't enough time and space to fulfill their individual dreams of success.

Just like your free willed pen, you want to write a story about free will and correct decision making when everyone wants credit for writing a better story than anyone else. Now, you had a story in mind where everything gets better all the time for everyone, as they learn the limitations of any and all kinds of mental calculation- and hence decision making, when decisions are made in the desire to acquire and give others what has no lasting value. When you live one lifetime after another, but are only certain of the lifetime you are in, and believe very well it might be the only lifetime you have.

You strive to acquire only that which you must leave behind, not believing in a God so kind he would give you an eternity of entertaining education if you learn for yourself what has true value. So you arrive in each lifetime having made no progress at all. You don't learn what is truly valuable and can be accumulated from life to life. And now, well time is now coming to an end.  Everyone, absolutely everyone, who would write a story of success just for themselves and a few loved ones, is coming to a sorry end. All are coming to a sorry end, all but  those who would write a happy story for everyone else, ending in a life enhancing lesson learned too, a lesson without mass that can be carried on, those who would  leave themselves anonymous and outside of the book, those souls would survive,  because the joy of   writing such happy stories for others is all they desire and that is quite a treasure of a lesson to be learned.

But your pen doesn't like this story where everyone does better. It plays ill and stops the flow of ink. Or it leaks. Or causes your letters to be formed out of shape. The Pen had a story in it's free willed mind it believed was a masterpiece and better than yours. And now you are running out of blank pages because so many get wasted and simply have no longer the resources to write a happy ending for one and all.

You have to decide who survives to live again and who must be voided and erased to clear empty pages of space for those who have gathered real treasures.

The pen with free will, dreamed of being able to lift it's point out of a story it couldn't control and become recognized as the author of a masterpiece that might, just might earn a place of everlasting renown in some museum, perhaps on a pedestal, where it could be admired for it's originality and genius.

It is all a matter of one's scope of perspective.
Is It Really, Predestined President Lincoln? How Long Is One's Future? And how did that advice work out for you, Abe,  In The End.

 The pen could see no farther than where it touched the paper. It only knew of "now", having been misled and misinformed by a Guru who sold the idea happiness has no narrative, no past and no future and thus earned himself gallons of ink, which he would never have time enough to use, for he himself had no story worth writing. He was ever focused on nothing but Now. Focused on no Drama,  he never in any moment had a past or future and there is no story that can be told just about the "now" because the"now" becomes the past so fast, by the time you describe anything worthwhile it has slipped into the past and has to be erased in a story only about "now" .

And the pen with free will? It really had no story at all, just a picture of itself being admired, that it admired.

What would you do with such a pen?

Such are the human inhabitants of the earth, most soon to be discarded and tossed into the flame of shame and remorse as the only recourse for their improvement. 1111

September 29th, 2017

A Catastrophic Tragedy. Maybe Not!


Jonathan Michael Robbins

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