That is an interesting point of view, An Gadai, but it is perhaps of greater urgency that God has revealed himself, and his name is Boyo Jim. The evidence is now pretty convincing. I kind of had a feeling about this thread.
I have always worried that I am living in a solipsist universe, and it’s not mine.
Sometimes a Lobsang is no more than a Lobsang.
If I don’t exist, can I just quit my job and blow off all my bills?
Doncha hate having to take ‘solipsi seconds’?
Eh. Maybe that attempt at a joke shouldn’t exist.
‘It’s only the Red King snoring,’ said Tweedledee.
‘Come and look at him!’ the brothers cried, and they each took one of Alice’s hands, and led her up to where the King was sleeping.
‘Isn’t he a LOVELY sight?’ said Tweedledum.
Alice couldn’t say honestly that he was. He had a tall red night-cap on, with a tassel, and he was lying crumpled up into a sort of untidy heap, and snoring loud—‘fit to snore his head off!’ as Tweedledum remarked.
‘I’m afraid he’ll catch cold with lying on the damp grass,’ said Alice, who was a very thoughtful little girl.
‘He’s dreaming now,’ said Tweedledee: ‘and what do you think he’s dreaming about?’
Alice said ‘Nobody can guess that.’
‘Why, about YOU!’ Tweedledee exclaimed, clapping his hands triumphantly. ‘And if he left off dreaming about you, where do you suppose you’d be?’
‘Where I am now, of course,’ said Alice.
‘Not you!’ Tweedledee retorted contemptuously. ‘You’d be nowhere. Why, you’re only a sort of thing in his dream!’
‘If that there King was to wake,’ added Tweedledum, ‘you’d go out—bang!—just like a candle!’
‘I shouldn’t!’ Alice exclaimed indignantly. ‘Besides, if I’M only a sort of thing in his dream, what are YOU, I should like to know?’
‘Ditto’ said Tweedledum.
‘Ditto, ditto’ cried Tweedledee.
He shouted this so loud that Alice couldn’t help saying, ‘Hush! You’ll be waking him, I’m afraid, if you make so much noise.’
‘Well, it no use YOUR talking about waking him,’ said Tweedledum, ‘when you’re only one of the things in his dream. You know very well you’re not real.’
‘I AM real!’ said Alice and began to cry.
‘You won’t make yourself a bit realler by crying,’ Tweedledee remarked: ‘there’s nothing to cry about.’
‘If I wasn’t real,’ Alice said—half-laughing through her tears, it all seemed so ridiculous—‘I shouldn’t be able to cry.’
‘I hope you don’t suppose those are real tears?’ Tweedledum interrupted in a tone of great contempt.
I sometimes like to think that we’re all gods of ourselves, and everyone of us has awesome Godtastic Powers. Except for that one person reading this message RIGHT now. They’re just not in on the joke, and think that everyone else is normal.
That poor bastich.
So I’m happy to know you’re in charge of my mortgage.
Phil (again, love? why?)
Well, in business wisdom comes with the realization that not all compensation is financial.
I suppose that in psychology wisdom can come from the realization that not all masturbation is sexual.
Perhaps love is an act of emotional masturbation stimulating whatever neurons that give us whatever pleasure is either desired or required consciously or unconsciously. As only I exist it is my personal choice to enact the mechanics of said masturbatory stimulation.
Thus I love my wife, I love my children, I love my car, I love you guys - all in different ways but all stroking the emotional onanism that maintains my stability and balance (whether I realize it or not).
Or not, perhaps the mechanics of love and business only cross paths at certain intersections of life for $20 per half hour.
While you are imagining me, why don’t you imagine that my wife and I have fewer interruptions (kids, jobs, chores, etc.) and more time for sex?
Behind the shelter in the middle of the roundabout
A pretty nurse is selling poppies from a tray
And though she feels as if she’s in a play
She is anyway
I imagine I only actually exist in the imagination of some imaginary guy named Steve. Which would, of course, make Steve part of my imagination. I wonder how Steve feels about that.