Intransit

Sunday

I asked my son to help me to get a proper Link to appear on the right of my blog and at last I can send readers to Tom's website. The process to provide the Link left me floundering. It's all a strange language to me with symbols and dashes and hyphens etc. Anyway, it's done now, so have a click on the Link and enjoy a good read. I was fortunate enough to be asked by Tom to supply some of my 'words,' and he was gentle enough to accept them.
Discussions on a Forum concerning bipolar issues have drawn me back to a thread I have avoided. The Mind is a delicate flower, which needs care and a lightest of touches. We are all living in a dream, where reality impinges from time to time. Plato and Aristotle play games in my head for weeks at a time. Are those shadows on the wall or a hint at pre-existence? If I'm moved, who or what moved me? Can I be a prime-mover? Would I desire it? Is the thought I hear as I type this sentence, the culmination of 4 billion years of evolution from a single wet cell in a sea of minerals? I think not. Am I really the end product of so much time and life? Does it stop with me? My offspring exist in their own right. We gave them bodies to live in. We didn't give them our minds as well. Flesh, blood, genes, characteristics of form and substance came from us, but their minds? Whose voice do they hear when they type on their keyboards?

posted by john @ 4:06 pm