The Parable of The Ultimate Container of Containers
Once upon a time there was once only a formless thing of infinite potential in which nothing existed. And, as is the nature of potential, since something can potentially happen, something did (it's infinite after all, and without the silly limits of time, what wouldn't be possible?). Into this potential popped a race of beings who came into existence by their own act of creation. Which is to say that they started creating things within the potential which automatically created themselves. This may seem paradoxical but it is not for a thing created for meaning, or use, or value of whatever nature, must also create the creator for neither can exist without the other.
These beings were quick to evolve from their creations to purposeful sentients by the very fact that the things which they formed to contain the formless potential had to be arranged in ever greater aggregates (which is to say containers of containers) of relative association in order for them to begin to transfer anything. Arrangements which the potential could not leave still for that was the only way to maintain its essence. And in that need came the requirement of grasp and reach and handle. With these could there then be meaning, and with meaning could come idenity. Thus the self, and that which is not the self, could be recognized. Thus were things named. And thus could there be concepts such as beauty, complexity, and wonder. And from that would the formless potential itself resonate, providing the glue, that was also the essence of the generation in transfer, to keep the process of creation going.
As they evolved a simple set of truths became evident. First was the fact that there was set in motion the longing to know what was truly encompassed by their containers. The second was the fact that, with the patient application of a balanced effort in bringing containers together and letting them move apart, a significant sense of what was truly contained could be realized. The third fact was that, despite their greatest effort, this sense of what was contained could never be complete. And the last fact was understanding, and accepting, that the balance lay in seeing both the power and limitations of the individual containers. And that any deeper truths had to be taken on faith. That this must be so because the effort could be nothing less than endless, as meaning must necessarily be fleeting, for nothing can transfer without movement, and the potential couldn't leave them still in any case.
Of all of the containers that were given names, none became more useful, as well as more dangerous, than those that were called ideas. Ideas and imagination created each other you see, which in turn created dreams. And of all the ideas that these beings thus then began to dream of, none was more alluring and deadly than the Ultimate Container of Containers; for in that lay what was said to be the key to containment. The ultimate handle by which all could be grasped to its very core for ever. All meaning held and wielded without end. Thus, with the promise of truths made of more than sand (beautiful though those Mandela’s might be), the ordinary idea of power (or the ordinary power of idea) itself seemed to become a haggard beggar held from true bounty. And with such a contrast was there then created the concept of seduction.
There was one fatal flaw with this most alluring of ideas though. To understand this flaw one must first understand that, just as the idea of mind can have it's own inner sight, so too can the imagination have a hand in feeling. For as much as one could reach from within a dream to grasp hold of this key; and from which all manner of possibility be touched upon, and their glories visualized, in no way could the hand of imagination withdraw (or the inner eye close) as long as it held that handle. For to let go of an ultimate possibility was to truly see, and thus let go of the dream, and with that to be left with finding sufficiency within the simple simple set of truths.
And so it came to pass that seduction worked an effect that had no counter. To their great woe and consternation did ever greater numbers of their kind fall into this snare. And you might think that this would lead to the end of their existence, but it did not. At least not right away. It merely changed their existence to that of a shared dream from which none ever awoke. For as the number of dreamers grew, so did the power of the dream. So much so that none could ever know it other than that which was the truly real. And the thing that once was real became the dream. And in that turn did Heaven and Hell, as the same place, come into being; a place that did not know any limit to excess or deprivation; a place where the war of meaning became the norm as each individual had the power to create and hold their own sense of real. A private real that could hold sway over others, and have them surrender themselves to it. And the only way to fight this war was with the ruthless accumulation of imaginary containers; encompassments with which to bury any competing meanings from shared perception.
Even as large numbers fell sway to the new concepts of greed, envy, lust and hate, others strove with great effort to fight back with concepts of their own: love, justice, empathy and understanding. But this fight became a losing battle because of the very nature of the dream itself. For in this shared realm of various kinds of excess and extremes, the latter concepts could never generate the kind of power associations that the former had within the carrier wave of fear. This because they were always forced to fight their battle within the same environment of meanings already forged by the other side. This battle continues and for how much longer there is no independent perception to say. And it is only the few of their kind still left in the old real, hardly clinging to their own validity any more, who echo as ghosts with the tragedy that is the Ultimate Container of Containers. For it is only by waking up that any of them can ever hope to keep existence going. For no matter which side wins the battle of the dream, the formless potential that once resonated so greatly and pure from being given shapes and interactions to be perceived and appreciated, grows ever more cold. For so little is truly met by created and creator any more that it withers. The divine nature of this process is being lost and therein lies the true meaning of tragedy.
All of these beings are the creator. All of them are the created. All of them share in the grandeur and limitations of creation. Woe to them who do not awake.