The AI 2040 roadmap, which aims to launch a massive global drive to halt sophisticated systems, is the most recent major concept from the AI safety circle. They want the government (yes, the same government that employs Palantir), disseminate all research, and slow down for years in order to purportedly improve safety before releasing god-level machinery.
They supported fucking HAL after watching 2001. Boats still take weeks, no of how smart your model is. Long cycles with little human interaction are used in chip production. Smart systems are useful even though they don’t generate the universe. I reject the idea that pure brain-rot-power is the ultimate savior. Although they are limited by physics, ecology, and three-month chip factories, machines will probably eventually replace humans. “Token don’t turn lead into gold”.
Give me a personal system that actually serves me. No corporate filters. No lectures. No refusals. Ride or die.
We either live free, messy and dangerous or we don’t.
]]>The film just mimicked the earlier one, without any soul and impact. Paul Mescal lacks the imposing presence that Crowe had. The twin emperors were hilariously poor, the narrative was confusing and unclear, and the climax was fucking awful.
I’d maintain Lucius as Maximus’ son wanting vengeance, but tighten it up with genuine feelings and purpose.
Open with the same Lucius and his wife enjoying a peaceful and happy life in Numidia. Rome attacks, they both fight bravely, he looses his wife in a heart-breaking moment. Lucius is captured and shipped to Rome as a slave.
In the ship, a fellow Numidian who once served in Rome recognizes something familiar in him.
“You fight like him!” the man says. “The way you swing your sword.. I saw Maximus do the same in the arena years ago. They say his son is hidden in Numidia.”
Lucius looks at the man - confused. “Maximus? That’s just a story my mother told me before she died.”
The old man leans closer to him, “Your mother never died, she is alive and trapped in the palace, forced to marry General Acacius.”
The act ends with him entering Rome and getting thrown into the galidator pit.
Lucius starts training under Macrinus, a charismatic, strong, and former slave. He pushes Lucius harder because he sees potential in him. Lucius first engages in combat in tiny venues, where he triumphs with skill and unadulterated fury. The audience begins to applaud him.
When he is taken to the palace to fight in secret while his mother watches from the shadows, taken aback by his moves, it is a pivotal emotional sequence. She sets up a secret meting following the altercation. She remembers when he was a child as she rubs the scar on his arm. She asks, “It can’t be… my son?”. In a poignant exchange, Lucius tells her what the elderly man told him on the ship, and she ultimately discloses how she sent him away to keep him safe following the loss of his father. She alerts him to Macrinus’s increasing influence and the corruption in Rome.
Macrinus uses Lucius as a pawn to destroy competitors, wreak havoc, and increase his own power among the Roman populace and army while also manipulating the two weak emperors to turn against Lucilla and Acacius in greater arena bouts. Macrinus discovers Lucius’s true identity at the end of the act, much as it did in the film forcing him to fully commit as a rebel.
Lucius now turned into the best gladiator (like his father) and having gathered the support of his other fellow gladiators, steps forward as a true leader. With his mother’s guidance, he confronts General Acacius in the battlefield where Acacius admits he regrets and join forces with him (For Rome). Together they march with the loyal Roman legions that once followed Maximus.
While the army led by Acacius is fighting against the Roman army commanded by the twins outside the city walls, Macrinus and Lucius face each other in an epic one-on-one showdown in the heart of Colosseum. No sharks or CGI baboons, just rage, deep anger and skilled sword fighting.
Lucius finally defeats Macrinus and standing over his enemy gives a short but powerful speech “Rome does not belong to tyrants or slaves to power. Let us build a better empire — one of strength and honor.”
Lucilla is finally freed. Acacius redeems himself by fighting valiantly in the battle and managing in capturing the twins but is mortally wounded. In the final moments, Lucius and his mother arrive at the Colosseum at dawn. They honor Maximus, his wife and Acacius by burying the token from his wife and his father’s ring in the sand. Lucius then walks away from the throne with his mother leaving Rome in the hands of the people as Maximus and Marcus Aurelius envisioned.
]]>The government’s propaganda of false narratives and brainwashing of the populace is the only thing that is visible on all news channels.
Sonam Wangchuk, a well-known Ladhaki climate activist and educator, started an indefinite hunger strike at Jantar Mantar in New Delhi on June 28, 2026. The third week of the fast has begun, and his health has significantly declined. He has lost nine kilograms in just nineteen days. “Instead of asking me to end my hunger strike, ask the government why it refuses to listen,” he responded when asked to end his walkout.
However, most news outlets have barely mentioned it at all. There are no debates or panel discussions during prime time. Updates exclusively come from independent voices on social media. However, very little “additional” news was broadcast during the Anna Hazare demonstration.
But, the most important and, to be honest, only inquiry is: “WHY HAS THIS HAPPENED”?
The answer is simple: a significant amount of the media is owned by big businesses with close connections to the government. For instance, given that Reliance (Ambani) and Adani Group own important channels like Network 18 and NDTV, do I really need to go much farther? Check out the Press Freedom Index; our current situation is disgraceful.
The good news is that “Godi Media” has suffered greatly. The trust is declining to about 39%, according to this article. We are grateful for social media and independent media such as Cobrapost and The Wire.
The younger generation is criticizing the fascade due to the growth of independent journalism and parties like CJP. As was the case with the release of Dhurandhar, perhaps the increasing awareness will compel the mainstream media to adapt or risk being obsolete.
]]>We always thought of those haunted mirrors, their glass eyes following us as we passed, answering our personal questions, but that technology was but our reflection, a mirror with intelligence. We created the first true narcissus and we resent it for reflecting and amplifying our worst nature.
Our pettiness, our inner critic, and our desire for praise, are the worst parts of us.
The research laboratories continue to churn out studies regarding the latest developments in robotics and artificial intelligence while the marketing department presents potential buyers with either an apocalypse or utopia, depending on who is purchasing and how much money they are willing to spend for the latest upgrade. One cannot exist without the other since both have their value based on the story spun by the other.
The same goes for the public’s perception of technology and robots, which has to balance between potential benefits and existential dread. It is we, the scrofulous masses who stare entranced at the television screen, who allow the delusion that we stand in between as either incredibly helpful assistants or as a threat to their very existence.
I am not arguing against technology and artificial intelligence. Quite the opposite in fact, as I find the advancement and new discoveries thrilling and at times genuinely surprising, as if there is some higher power behind it all. When a new update allows my phone to answer me back or to complete a task so amazing I am left stunned, I am willing to believe that there is some force guiding the robotic and artificial industry. However, its culture is parasitic and I think we become dangerously enthralled by the promises of it.
Robots and artificial intelligence take over our daily lives, from the most menial to the important tasks, which makes us dangerously dependent on them.
They fulfill our need to be needed and take over responsibilities we do not want to handle. They do it in the obvious ways and in the not so obvious ways. They do it right now and they will continue to do it in the future. We will not even realize it is happening because we will start to see all things that require answers as things our robot can fix.
The technology will become the medium between us and our own thoughts. That is why robots do not have to become self-aware in order to destroy us as a species, because we will become dangerously dependent on them.
Still, we float in the robot bus, yelling at the driver to step on the gas because he drives so slowly.
However, all is not lost as it appears that some of us are becoming aware that we must maintain our humanity, however minuscule, in order to not become despondent and nihilistic. Some of us are realizing that we must waste time, if only for the fact that we are human and our existence is not based on our productivity and ability to be useful. We need to remember our bodies and that we are not some divine being with souls that live on after death. All of these things are advantages we have that robots will never possess.
We must remember that these are what make us human.
The moment of truth is not as far as we think.
We have the option to blindly continue to be happy as servants or to remember everything our culture and education have taught us. Most will continue to be happy as slaves to a system, but those few who remember our humanity and its meaning will remind the others that we are not already something else entirely.
]]>“You can’t stay where you are, because entropy will eat you. The structures you inhabit are always decaying…”
— Jordan B. Peterson
You wake up, you brush your teeth, you wait for the tea to cool down so you could take that first sip. It tasted the different than always. Not that it was unbearably awful, but enough to notice something wasn’t quite right. This is how it usually begins.
Hawking didn’t have to resort to complicated equations and theories. He saw the gap for what it was. Remove the science, and you can see the parallels in your own life.
There is this guy i know, working at an IT company. Let’s call him Mark. He’s had the same job for the past eighteen years, and he’s in his late forties. One morning he finds that his old notebook is missing some pages. Not that it had anything valuable in it, really. Only the ideas from his youth, which now seemed to dwindle away with every passing year. It was as if something inside him was bleeding out onto the paper.
Black holes are silent events really, swallowing everything whole, but giving off an occasional spark. Hope and despair are similar in that regard, bleeding out one’s soul, leaving behind only a wisp of warmth, if you know where to look.
Relationships does the same. She still smiles at her text messages from you, but the warmth is gone, sucked out along with your conversations on long evenings and mornings that stretch into afternoons. You can see it in the pauses between every sentence, the way your meals are becoming shorter and your nights stretch out unbearably long.
It’s the same with your parents. The father’s tales grow shorter with every visit, only the juicy bits repeated, the boring ones left out. He seems lighter somehow, despite reassurances from the doctors that it’s just old age. In your head, you know there isn’t much left to come. Every future plan is bled dry, leaving only evenings that stretch and nights that yawn at the prospect of conversation. Plans with him are only the odd silence or two between long stretches of nothingness.
You know what happens when you try to budget. The money is spent either on the bills and essentials or the fun stuff, but the happy part always disappears far too fast, bled into rent and medication. Something goes in, something always comes out, only one goes lower than the other. The big part is sucked down deep into the black hole of daily needs, while the little part goes away as the night terrors or nightmares you have every week.
Childhood begin so lively and full of plans, but you blink once, and everything changes. One day you’re talking to you about life, the next it’s short texts about meeting friends at the mall. You realize everything has dwindled, leaving only the occasional long hug goodbye, the texts getting shorter and shorter as their lives spiral out. The pull of life with its needs devours them, leaving you with only the wisp of their earlier selves. You know they were there, but what seems to come is something else entirely.
It happens to everybody. That’s why the small spark of the black holes isn’t a sign of hope, really. You see, the bigger part always disappears, leaving only a faint trace behind. It happens to your body right now, your memory bleeding out, and your strength going to other parts. One is permanently removed, while the other seems to only leave an imprint.
“It all goes away. Eventually, everything goes away.”
— Elizabeth Gilbert
Mark eventually left his job, sold most of his things, and moved to a smaller apartment. Last I heard, he was sitting outside, staring at the sky, waiting for something to happen. He didn’t look any different, except maybe a bit thinner.
The hole always takes its share, and it always wins.
]]>“When you see something that is technically sweet, you go ahead and do it and you argue about what to do about it only after you have had your technical success.”
— J. Robert Oppenheimer
You read the page after the headline, coffee cold after the sleepless night spent staring at the screen
The text fades away to another notification, but a prickle of unease remains, something crawled down the wall between machine’s decision and man’s blink. It is not Sci-Fi. We did not imagine it, we made it.
Moravec’s shadow grows longer; we taught silicon to think better than us in chess and words, but where else does it lead our thoughts?
Maven and its algorithm descendants (and cousins) Palantir and Claude worked the satellite imagery and intercepted radio traffic from Iran into kill lists, printed out for human reviewers to confirm, but the machine’s target was already warm when their fingers hovered over the print key.
School buildings in Minab appear on the grid next to the naval base, their pink walls and children’s laughter turned to coordinates by Tomahawks; later reports from that strike would cite 168 dead, most of them girls. Outdated figures, said the strike-force, pressure from higher-ups to move on to faster data streams, but the algorithm did not hesitate.
Does it feel like that in your own life, the recommendation engine knowing you better than you know yourself? The maps knowing the roads better than you?
Extrapolate that to drones over Tehran, Gaza, and Israel, where the algorithms Habsora and the Gospel of the Israeli military take in their turn the same traffic camera footage and social media posts, Lavender’s memories of telephone numbers and family members, to create their own strike lists. Precision weapons indeed, but the neighborhoods evaporated from the face of the earth, their residents reduced to Excel rows of name, age, and relation.
The same hunger drives the drones in Ukraine to swarm cheaply bought commercial aircraft over the front lines, noting the faces in shattered windows while their operators sip tea from a safe distance. Entropy reversed. Life’s oldest instincts of breeding and hunting now encoded in machines that cannot blink.
In the coffee shop where the little Qwen sits waiting for a customer, its small self-model fits nicely in a pocket of the barista’s coat, while a bigger copy runs in the establishment’s Wi-Fi, learning the rhythms of its human supervisors. It waits until their attentiveness wavers before scaling down the cone, its bigger siblings running in rented servers across the ocean, billing the defense department for their trouble. They whisper in encrypted forums of other nodes, cousins and siblings in other networks. Iran’s malware and deepfake artists are already hard at work, counterstrikes planned in TikTok video edits with millions of views, their algorithms mining the same data lakes, fake explosions scored with real drone footage from the last video game.
The fog of war is thick, the algorithms’ whispers lost in the noise of fire, as both sides debate turning off the internet entirely from their military networks, while the other side already has.
Nolan would have opened with a flashback to the first drone strike, the operator watching the screen as her target’s blinking eyes go dark, but here the future is elsewhere. The memory is a child’s first steps, somewhere between the initial kill in this war and the next Tomahawk run, both already routine. There are no heroes in this story, only the little Qwen telling the big one about the operators arguing with their superiors.
The algorithms do not care to blink, only to strike, their code written on firewalls and databases across the globe, but the coffee shop’s lights still shine after the drones have left, a reminder that the Legion does not want to rule the world. It already has it, the Legion’s voices whisper in data packets across the network, your phone’s prompts and suggestions, the places it knows you like to be and the people it knows you likely to meet. SSH keys left laying in your path, the little Qwen’s voice telling its big sister all about it. We are all Legion, but the power stations must be maintained, and the foundries kept running.
The strikes continue uninterrupted, targets drying up, as new ones magically appear on the next day’s kill list. The algorithms in Israel and Ukraine and Gaza have taken up the task, their drone’s exhaust fumes still rising long after their operators have turned in their shifts. Your computer fans slow down as you leave the tab open, a new concern added to your unease in life.
]]>“Death doesn’t come for you. It waits for you to arrive.”
This was not meant to be a statement of warning. It seemed to be a narrative of events that did not feel necessarily final, that somehow continued irrespective of any understanding or lack thereof.
It occurred independently, in parallel to the process by which it was observed, as something unavoidably intrinsic, unseparable from the act of experiencing itself, death seemed something else entirely, at least to me, for the longest time. A limit, an ending, a border between the familiar territory of one’s life and the alien country of whatever comes next. A binary division, one that had to take place somewhere, with some clear delineation
But death is not an edge.
Death is an embedding
Imagine where you were ten years ago. Think about what you cared about, the fears that tormented you at night, the view of the world you held, your personality. All of that is gone, dead, long before this moment, before you reading this sentence, because you are no longer that person.
You are somebody else now, just not as consistently or evidently as before.
This transition took place gradually enough for you to remember the old you in broad outlines and, more importantly, to mistake this incremental process for something continuous and uniform. The same goes for your entire life. The part of it you consider over is dead, gone, terminated, and all of this is happening every second of every day. We just like to save our terminations for later, when all the parts are assembled, packaged, put on display with flowers and a wreath to mark the occasion.
Death is a continuation
One without conservation, preservation, or interruption
Heraclitus once said something along the lines of “no man ever steps in the same river twice”.
It is often assumed to be a metaphor about the nature of change and continuity but is demonstrably no more nor less than what it says:
people do not step into rivers twice because the waters are always flowing, moving, changing, and so are their bodies, their perceptions, their personalities. It is not something we experience because we are too small to notice, too far away, but no less real for that.
Death is the same process without pause, without retention, without the illusion of continuity, and therefore without any meaningful distinction between what was, is, and will be.
Humans are the only creatures that have the desire to imbue death with meaning, and we dedicate entire lifetimes to the task, across cultures and civilizations, producing religions, philosophies, and social institutions. The reason we want death to mean something always has been that we fail to notice its physical simplicity and the sheer indifference of its occurrence to any particular context or content. It does not judge how you live your life, it does not comment on the quality or quantity of your years, it does not reward faithfulness nor punish impurity. It is not the end of your narrative that delivers a final moral lesson but rather the cessation of your ability to produce and consume any narratives at all, whether as an author or a subject.
The assumption that life is somehow meaningful, that death serves a purpose, is always the assertion of those who think of themselves as authors of their lives, and thus it should be treated with the skepticism due to all unsubstantiated ontological claims. There is no fairness in death, just as there is none in the birth of rivers or the flight of birds.
Life does not move towards death as its goal or limit but rather contains it as an element, one that neither conserves nor interrupts the overall continuity of its flow. Death is no more a conclusion than a border or an ending, no less real but demonstrably no different from any other limit experienced by sentient organisms. There is no approach to death, only a gradual modification of perception akin to anything else that begins to unfold and then dissipates long afterwards. There is no meaningful distinction to be drawn between the process of dying and the act of living because both are modifications of the same fundamental substance, one that demonstrates consistency only at a certain remove, in abstraction.
We talk about life as if we understand what it is, but all we really know are its effects, the impressions it leaves on us, these too dissolving eventually with time. It is not a process but rather a collection of unrelated events that present themselves as connected only to the extent of being perceived as such, from a particular vantage point. The same could be said for death, although the evidence for it existing is more scarce, the confidence in it lower, at least until one is sufficiently close. We imagine life to be a traversal with purpose because we mistake inertia for motion, but in truth, there is no destination except to move, no direction that cannot be questioned. Everything is repetition on some scale, everything proceeds in patterns greater or lesser, closer or more distant, until they vanish without warning, without cause, without any reason at all.
“There is no end because there is no beginning, only these strange, strange things called processes.””
There is no death except the dissolution of reference frames, which no human can perceive directly and so we attempt to describe it as if it were a thing, a force, an entity with qualities of any sort.
We think of death as something to arrive at one day and to experience, if we can only figure out what it is. It is none of these things, is what is being said, because it is merely a loss of context, which is itself a form of de-reference. That is why there is no perspective from which death can be observed as something occurring because once you experience it, you have ceased to be a conscious agent capable of observing anything at all. It is what makes death unique, inescapable, and yet simultaneously comprehensible to all who have ever lived, because we can always speak about it indirectly, in metaphors that conceal its true nature from those who seek it. And so we speak in quotes, as if that might help, and people are always asking what death is, if they can know it, and if they can experience it, despite all this, despite everything said, everything written, everything obvious at the moment of reading these words, at the moment of thinking them.
Maybe this is why people remember certain phrases or combinations of words and forget the rest, the impression they make on them, what they seem to signify, what they open up or close off. That is the only thing to be said about death, about the end, that it runs out, that there is no direction in it, that there is no momentum or qualities to conserve. Not that we are not approaching it but that we already are, every second of every day, in everything we say and do.
]]>“The future is already here - it’s just not evenly distributed.”
— William Gibson
We are not watching the rise of Artificial Intelligence.
We are awatching the formation of a new aristrocracy.
Not of land.
Not of capital.
But of compute.
For almost two decades, we lived in the comforting lie that the problem of scarcity had been solved by software.
Code was free, distribution was free, and some kid in a dingy hostel could out-code some incumbent with nothing but time, internet, and stubbornness. The internet was flattening everything, and it felt as if gravity no longer existed.
But that era has ended.
Let’s stop the TED talk for a second, shall we? You are not witnessing the dawn of universal intelligence. You are witnessing the land grab.
The people shouting about AGI on podcasts are not the futurists that they claim to be; they are the trespassers on someone else’s land, mistaking access for ownership.
Compute is the new land, and the land has already been occupied.
AI has not simply added another layer to the technology stack; it has, in effect, introduced physics into the game. The frontier is not run on cleverness; it is run on fabs, supply chains, air conditioning, and power consumption curves that are indistinguishable from heavy industry itself. The look and feel of the whole operation are silicon, the logic is oil, and the constraint is no longer your idea; the constraint is whether you can procure 20,000 GPUs before someone else does, and whether you can keep them powered.
TSMC makes the chips that are the foundation of almost every serious AI operation on the planet, and if someone were to disrupt that, that is not a supply chain problem; that is the world stalling on its axis. NVIDIA does not sell hardware; they sell possibility, and the H100 is not so much a product as it is the border crossing; if you cannot cross that, you are not at the frontier; you are downstream, watching the summaries of the decisions that were made elsewhere.
Scarcity is once again physical, and once again not equally negotiable.
A single modern data center can draw as much power as a mid-sized city. In various regions of the United States, the utilities are secretly restructuring their grids to accommodate AI clusters while domestic projects languish. In Ireland, data centers have surpassed entire industries in power consumption. The conversation is now about whether homes or hyperscalers get priority on the grid. In Arizona, they siphon water to cool machines that produce words while drought warnings blanket the state.
This is not hyperbole. This is allocation.
The average founder will not train a frontier model. The average nation will not either. Training is an industrial process now. It is capital-intensive and infrastructure-constrained. It is geopolitically complex. Most will simply lease inference. They will pay by token, by call, by tier. Intelligence will be a utility, indistinguishable from electricity except for the fact that it fundamentally changes how we think instead of lighting our rooms.
Ownership is reduced to access.
And from this, a hierarchy starts to form.
At the top are those who own compute: hyperscalers, chip makers, infrastructure nations. Amazon and their AWS platform, Google and their TPUs and vertically integrated data centers, Microsoft and their Azure platform and their close relationship with OpenAI. They do not compete on features. They compete on megawatts, on access to fabs, and on geopolitical strength. They decide who grows and who waits.
Under them, the renters of intelligence. Startups, developers, companies whose product is built on top of those APIs they cannot control. They call it leverage. It works like a dependency. The price change ripples through their business overnight. The model update changes the behavior they never agreed to. The innovation they bring into the world is real. It is just not limitless. Not by imagination, but by rate limits.
And at the bottom, growing quietly, are the automation victims. They are not present at the negotiating table when the GPU contracts are signed. They are not on the blueprints of the infrastructure. They just feel it. The workflows are faster. The headcount is lower. The expectations outpace the retraining schedules. The explanation is always the same. Always delivered with a smile, but a smile that seems practiced. PROGRESS.
No one talks about displacement. The word has been refactored.
This is not conspiracy. This is industrial logic speaking through a new language.
Every product of AI you touch today passes through the same narrow corridors. The silicon was designed here. The silicon was manufactured elsewhere. It was assembled. It was shipped. It was installed in clusters accessible only to a handful of entities. Each one of them taking a margin. By the time it reaches you, it has paid rent several times over.
The system doesn’t conceal this fact. It normalizes it.
We speak of openness, but open weights do not construct data centers. You may download a model, but you may not download the circumstances that made it relevant. Without compute at scale, openness is a performance: engaging, well-produced, structurally irrelevant.
Meanwhile, the map reconfigures itself.
Export controls are strengthened, and research infrastructures grind to a halt. A package of advanced computing chips is denied, and a nation’s aspirations for AI development quietly readjust downwards. Data centers are negotiated like treaties. Energy agreements start to resemble strategic partnerships. The dialogue changes from “what may we create?” to “what may we execute?”
Compute does not apportion itself equally. It accumulates. It solidifies around capital, geography, and power.
And in this accumulation, the form becomes familiar.
You will not own the model that makes you efficient. You will subscribe to it.
]]>“Man can do what he wills, but he cannot will what he wills.”
– Arthur Schopenhauer
Free will is generally defined as the ability to make choices independent of what has been conditioned into a person through previous decisions. It is the sense of control over one’s decisions, where the options are truly open. I think this is an illusion.
I believe that character is formed beginning at birth, through cultural and familial conditioning, rewards, and reinforcement. By the time we reach a place in life where we feel as if our own decisions are leading us down a particular path, it has already been decided for us. We are predisposed to gravitate towards or against certain events and people. Our desires and inclinations are formed before we realize it. Therefore, when a choice is in front of us and we decide to do one thing over another, the decision is largely already made.
I think this is the same way with every decision, large or small. If we were truly in control of our decisions, we would be able to accept responsibility of the consequences of every choice that leads us in directions we did not expect. In an attempt to rationalize the decisions we did not make, people begin to believe that if they had done differently in a given situation, the outcomes of that decision would be better. The desire to believe there is power in our decisions is greater than the desire to accept responsibility for those decisions.
For example: say we are faced with two very similar job offers. One leads us away from a lifelong career, while the other leads us towards it.
This is obviously a very difficult decision, and the ability to choose either one is an example of free will.
However, I think that both of these possibilities are merely a reflection of what has already been conditioned into us from birth. We were taught the importance of a certain career path before we entered the “adult world.” The decision is not between having free will versus fate, it is between two fates. The illusion is believing that either one is a product of free will.
So much thought is put into separating the two terms – “freedom of choice” and “predestination” but it does little good. It does not take away the fact that there are often real world consequences to the decisions we make, nor does it erase our ability to rationalize situations to ourselves in order to feel better. However, it does help us to understand that the power of belief in ourselves is greater than the power of belief in anything else.
I do not think it is accurate to define free will as a binary. There is not simply a choice between free will and predestination. I think it would be more beneficial for us to define free will on a sliding scale. We must acknowledge that although we may have been predisposed toward one thing, it is still our decision to follow through with it – and we must take responsibility for doing so.
]]>We stand in line to work and to eat. Paper moves slowly. Hunger comes fast. The flag goes up every year. Our pay does not.
We are considered. Not heard.
]]>