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What if?

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Author Topic: What if?  (Read 12488 times)
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Posts: 47

« Reply #210 on: April 03, 2014, 10:26:14 am »

I'm a Gemini, so I'm naturally schizophrenic, so here are two separate answers:

1.) Does One Have a Moral Responsibility to Fight Evil?

I think it actually depends entirely on whether or not one wishes to suffer the consequences associated with that particular path. The old adage, "No good deed ever goes unpunished," may be closer to the reality of existence in this realm of materialization than we would ever hope to imagine.

First: Imagine that we are all in fact immortal (have always been, are now, and always will be), and that all beings (sentient and non-sentient) and all things with "form" containing spiritual counterparts (contents) are also immortal. The shells (vehicles) are utterly expendable, and the souls are permanent.

Second: Imagine that life is an infinite series of Video-like games (Shoots and ladders), and that we all exist to find our ways through the mazes forever, taking on new forms as we progress and grow and expand in consciousness, beginning as thought forms within minerals, progressing to plants, then to animals, then to humans, to planets, to solar systems to galaxies, to universes, etc. When all are immortal, then "time" and all of its variants are absolutely of no consequence (Cycles are a "tad" lengthy.).

Third: The reason for this huge panoramic display of "trial and error" and games in this Fun House of existence is that God, Who we are all integral parts of, is a Singularity, a Single Being, residing permanently perfected in an infinite universe surrounded by Nothing............ and this incessant solitude has resulted in God's taking parts of Himself/Herself/Itself and creating universes and universes of Imagined existence (We are created in his "Image" [which means MIRROR], within that expanse of Nothingness that surrounds this Singularity; and within that mirror all existence transpires. And the cycles of existence recorded in the Vedas and in the ancient records are the happenings of all of us and our ancestors and all of Nature combined happening over and over and over in the hugest cycles of time and space (billions and billions of years) so that we become "Temporarily" (which means "time") unaware of  (Ignorance is Bliss) that we are all alone together in a universe surrounded by Nothingness.

Fourth: Have a nice eternity (a very nice long eternity), forever.

Fifth: By fighting Evil, one of the most important aspects in the Divine Play, this "Hugundous" Video game, one discovers that Evil prevents advancing souls from getting to the "Finish line" prematurely.................... so fighting evil will get you "hurt" if you are successful at it, because finding "short cuts" to the end and helping others (ladders) in the game is not generally allowed, unless you are a Master, Bodhisattva, Descended Being, etc.) and are allowed to make special dispensations to a few or just for so many in "special circumstances;" but if you are a lowly peon in the game and you accidently discover secret portals and passageways and help others through them............. be prepared for a major freaking Smack-down.................

Sixth: Of course, as Richard Bach, in his marvelous book Illusions states near the end of the book, "All of this could be wrong."

For any and all interested, I try to fight evil perpetually..................... I just no longer care about the consequences...................Namaste

And 2.) The Agni of God

The agony of God they say is not
why we are here. It is but Love that sends
us down this wayward track of fear. The plot
of hellish twists that soon entangles, rends,

and blinds, is just what Godís mechanics feel
we need to trust what binds: the Fire that
we seek in all the trials that we steal
is found in each experience, the fat

that cooks the meal. It is the basting grease
that flavors all that we consume, the trick
Godís cooks at Heavenís gate add to release
our doom. Our hunger keeps us ever sick,

and pleading at Godís door, as we explore
Fateís Fired Love, food scraps upon the floor.

The Daily News

I dash my head against the wall. I donít
know which breaks first. These lame directions show
me now that guessing which is cursed. I wonít
conjecture that my mind will ever know

the truth, that whatís behind these blessed bricks
will offer to this sleuth the answers that
Iíve sought for ages, hoping thereís a fix,
a hidden meaning, Grail for blood, or cat

in bag of tricks. There are no clues to steer
our course, no signs in this fair Hell. The lost
within this Earthly plane do not yet fear
Godís spell, His magic show in which weĎre tossed

to flounder for an age, without a sage
to help us as we ďactĒ upon lifeís stage.

Lighted Beacon Towers

Pied pipers are a sorry lot. Their art
Is forged with din. Their methods to release
some healing come from hugging sin. The part
they play is never sought in times of peace

and joy. Timeís dead-end death, with all thatís feared,
like Helenís Fated Troy, is when the gods
make use of weapons most would view as weird,
a sling for David, beans for Jack, the odds

are not revered. The poisons of this world
are many, remedies are few. But sand
that oysterís Fates deliver are soon pearled
anew. Each message in lifeís tortured hand

holds trees within each seed. But life and need
are seldom seen when mankind shelters greed.

Rolling the Stone

Embracing Death is hugging life, with yins
and yangs complete. By fostering deep love
for both all evil works retreat, Most sins
are differentiating whatís above

from here. There is no difference at all;
creation is quite clear. The Spirit that
pervades all life is like a crystal ball,
thatís infinite in size through time, a stat

behind lifeís wall, or veil, or well, or whale
thatís lost three days adrift at sea, a ship
with Jonahís soul inside: Godís will to jail
whatís free. The sooner we accept Hellís tip

that life and death are One, then whatís begun
as frozen death or life will be undone.


I am a genii in a lamp, the Chi
within the Lamb. I am not freed unless
Iím graced by Hellís fiendís blaster sham. The fee
is that I pledge three ages all to bless

the poor, the meek, the ill, the wretched pained,
while Fates convey our score. The trials placed
in my cold hands arenít black and white, but stained.
The daily magnets seeking peace are braced

from coffers drained. All consequences blame
fair choices, hurdles kissed by clocks. The lines
of blind recipients all play this game
like rocks, have poker faces stamped with signs

revealing hopes not fed. What must be said
is that this Hellís eternityís not dead.


We humans are the devastation prayed
upon by Earth. Our death hereís our unbuil-
ding, for Godís damned our every worth. Godís made
our resurrection an impossibil-

ity, to keep us helpless through charmed fate
and blind reality. Our Om is what
is promised though we cannot find that gate.
Itís hidden in a lane of love, Earthís rut

disguised with hate. All outward forms of lib-
eration are lost hands of cards. The deal-
ers ask you ante up, and pay Hellís crib
of guards. Thereís always payment, lives to steal,

the very fruit of souls, those daily tolls
of want and greed, an emptiness of holes.

Inside out

Our bodies are not sacred, they are trash
in Heavenís dump. Recycled bits of earth
and dust, a masticated lump. The stash
of Soul that wears this mask is not much worth

the trip, that endless round-about in time
a Mobius-like strip. Weíre led to think
we have a goal thatís up this hill we climb,
if we but struggle with each step and drink

Godís words sublime. We are just fools in Heav-
enís school, the blood in Arthurís Grail. The lost
sheep in a nursery rhyme, that dunce in Sev-
enís Jail. This Earth plane where weíve all been tossed

is bottom of the heap, where we can keep
our precious dreams, remaining fast asleep.

And 3.) (I lied)

Here is William Shakespeare's (excuse me, Francis Bacon's) "angry" sonnet, of which I have always been impressed:

ďThe expense of spirit in a waste of shame
Is lust in action; and, till action, lust
Is perjured, murdírous, bloody, full of blame,
Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust;
Enjoyed no sooner but despised straight;
Past reason hunted and, no sooner had,
Past reason hated as a swallowed bait,
On purpose laid to make the taker mad:
 Mad in pursuit, and in possession so;
Had, having, and in quest to have, extreme;
A bliss in proof and, proved a very woe;
Before, a joy proposed; behind, a dream.
All this the world well knows; yet none knows well
To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell.Ē

And some of my own, which hopefully reflect dimly his sentiments:

The clock beeps tones, as I awake, the noise
unravels dreams, the thought of work shreds peace
of mind, a consciousness of streams. The joys
I felt when sound asleep are lost and cease

to be. The News last night of wars and debt
were real on my T.V. Foreclosures now
have raced through towns and states where neighbors bet
on lotto cards their last pay checks, thatís how

their bills are met: a **** when whatís bought
gets lost, like dreams and lives and hopes, a last
faint gasp, a living death, like chattel caught
in ropes. Church-job-state-school all tie one fast

to wheels of tortured bliss; what people miss
to ice lifeís cake is blessed by deathís first kiss.

I stagger through the bathroom door to stare
at what stares back. The mirror strains to pass
me off as nothing but a hack. I dare
to stretch the truths Iíve found that seem so crass

and failed, and wonder if those dreams so fresh
will help me when Iím jailed: this body sits
like worlds aflame, a fence of tortured flesh:
whatís inside-out and up-side-down that fits

like Satanís crŤche. The News treats life like storms
without, and stirs these pots with glee. The schools
have failed to teach the young, the state reforms
whatís free. The churches preach such misplaced rules

that fear of Hell (for those, who never chose
this nether world) is offered as repose.

Where does one go; whom does one seek, to fix
this wretched state, this goddamned piece of crap
called life, which fosters lost debate? The tricks
of time and space are such that not one sap

comes close to sharing truths of how we get
beyond whatís so morose: this Hell of Hells,
this ruse in ruse, this game where winners fret
the free pass to start once again, where bells

mark whatís reset. The game of life is just
a game, a chance to dream a lie, a time
to wander through ĎWhat ifs,í and learn to trust
or die, to play at love or hate or crime

and not dream, ďWeíre aloneĒ; that dreaded koan
that mocks all fear, and rips all veils if known.

What does one know, when all alone, when left
to ponder Self? Is One content to peer
at night, when Nothingís on the shelf, bereft
of time, and space, and dreams, all still and clear

of thought, when all, there is, is Being Still,
that state all saints have sought? If this be so,
what brings forth "space," what brings forth "time" to kill?
Who places sparks of light far flung that grow

in Matterís spill? Who places worth in plays
of will, to strive back to The Source, where One
should never have set forth, or left what stays
all force? Why trap whatís freed? Why free whatís none?

Who makes this game exist? Why are we grist
for Godís millstone? Whoís placed us in Hellís fist?

Any other speculations would be highly appreciated.................Blessings and Namaste, TG

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