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.
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