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Take Your Pick: The Game Show of Life

There used to be a British game show called Take Your Pick. Contestants were faced with a simple choice: take the money offered by the host or gamble it for the contents of a mystery box. The box might contain a luxury holiday or a brand-new car — or it might hold a rubber duck, a tin of beans, or some other “booby prize.”

The audience would cheer, the host would tease, and tension would rise as the contestant hesitated between the safe, sensible choice and the tantalising possibility of something extraordinary. Most of the time, the decision came down to one thing: greed. And that’s what made it such compelling television.

It strikes me how much that show resembles the way many people approach life. We are constantly offered the same choice: contentment with what we already have, or the gamble of chasing something we imagine will make us happier. The “money” represents sufficiency — the quiet recognition that our basic needs are met. The “box” represents desire — the endless hope that something out there will complete us.

The irony is that our real needs are few. We need food, water, shelter, and companionship. We need safety and a sense of purpose. Beyond that, the rest is largely want — and wants multiply the moment they’re satisfied. A new phone soon becomes outdated, a promotion soon feels inadequate, and yesterday’s dream becomes today’s expectation. The box never stays closed for long.

Modern society, of course, thrives on this addiction. The entire machinery of advertising and consumer culture depends on our willingness to keep choosing the box. We are promised that happiness lies just one purchase, one experience, one upgrade away. Even governments measure success by consumption, as if the health of an economy were the same thing as the wellbeing of its people.

But the cost of this collective addiction is enormous. The planet groans under the weight of our wants. Inequality widens as resources are drained to feed the fantasy of perpetual growth. And inwardly, individuals become restless and dissatisfied, never quite content with the “money” of a simple, sufficient life. The more we chase, the further contentment seems to recede.

The truth is that peace comes not from opening more boxes, but from seeing through the illusion that they contain what we’re looking for. The richest prize has been within us all along — the ability to feel grateful, to breathe deeply, and to be alive in this moment.

That doesn’t mean rejecting comfort or ambition. It means recognising when “enough” really is enough. It means noticing the quiet joy of sufficiency before the noise of desire drowns it out.

If Take Your Pick were played on a spiritual level, the wisest contestant would smile, take the money, and walk away — not out of fear, but out of understanding. The real prize is not in the box at all; it’s in knowing that you don’t need to open it.

Trust — What Does It Really Mean?

There’s a lot of talk about trust — in politics, in business, in relationships. It’s one of those words that everyone uses, but few really stop to examine. “You have to trust me.” “I don’t trust the government.” “Trust has to be earned.” The word gets tossed around as if we all knew what it meant. But do we?

In relationships, trust is often equated with sexual fidelity. “Can I trust you?” really means, “Will you stay faithful?” That’s not unimportant, but is that all trust means — that someone won’t sleep with someone else? What about honesty, reliability, or kindness? A person can be sexually faithful yet emotionally manipulative, dishonest, or simply absent. And still we might say, “I trust them.” Clearly, our ideas of trust are both narrow and confused.

In friendships, trust often means confidentiality: “I can tell you something in confidence, and you won’t repeat it.” In families, it may mean dependability: “I can trust you to pick me up at the station.” In politics and business, it’s usually about credibility: “Can I trust what you say?” In religion, people speak of trusting in God, as if faith were a kind of insurance policy against uncertainty. And in the modern digital world, we hear about trust in institutions — banks, media, technology — where algorithms and passwords have replaced handshakes and shared values.

But if you look closely, all these forms of trust have one thing in common: they rely on an expectation of how others will behave. We trust someone because we assume they’ll act according to our standards — that they’ll be loyal, tell the truth, keep our secrets, deliver what they promise. Trust, in that sense, is really an extension of our own self-image. We project ourselves outward and hope that others will mirror us. And when they don’t, we feel betrayed.

At some point I realised that this expectation is absurd. Nobody can be a perfect proxy for me. Each person lives inside their own reality, their own fears, hopes, and interpretations. What I call “trust” is often just a disguised wish for control — a hope that the world will behave as I would, that others will think and act as I think and act. When they fail to do so, I call it “a breach of trust.” But what was really broken? The illusion that my expectations were reasonable.

So, if I can’t trust others to be me, can I at least trust myself? That sounds better, but even that collapses under scrutiny. For most of the time, I’m not fully conscious. I forget what matters. I make assumptions, act on emotion, repeat patterns I thought I’d outgrown. The idea that I can always trust myself is as unrealistic as the idea that others should always behave as I wish. My own mind is as unpredictable as anyone else’s.

So where does that leave trust? Do we abandon it altogether, and live behind emotional walls, suspicious of everyone and everything? No — that’s just fear wearing another disguise.

What I’ve come to see is that if I really want to experience trust, I have to turn it inward — not toward my personality or my ideas, but toward something within me that is constant. I can trust the fact that I am alive. I can trust my breath — it has never failed me, even when my mind has. I can trust the pulse of existence that animates me, the quiet intelligence that beats my heart, heals my wounds, and allows me to see, feel, and love. I can trust that — not because I understand it, but because it’s undeniable. It’s here now.

When I trust that — the divine, the animating principle, the simple fact of life — then trust is no longer about prediction or control. It’s about surrender. I no longer need others to conform to my expectations, or myself to be perfect. I can meet life as it unfolds, moment by moment, trusting the very ground of being itself.

From that place, relationships change. I can appreciate someone’s loyalty without demanding it. I can accept someone’s failure without feeling destroyed by it. I can see that others, like me, are doing their best with the awareness they have. Trust, then, becomes compassion — not a contract, but an understanding.

When people say, “Trust is hard to rebuild once it’s broken,” they are usually talking about the outer kind — the trust built on promises, rules, or roles. But the inner kind of trust, the trust in life itself, cannot be broken, because it isn’t based on conditions. It’s like breathing — it happens regardless of what anyone does. That kind of trust doesn’t depend on faith in human perfection; it’s rooted in the awareness that something deeper is already holding everything together.

Maybe that’s what real trust is: not believing that others will never hurt you, but knowing that, whatever happens, you will still be alive, still conscious, still capable of feeling peace. It’s a different kind of strength — one that doesn’t harden but softens, that doesn’t close but opens.

In that sense, to live in trust is to live in reality — not the shifting reality of promises and betrayals, but the quiet, steady reality of being itself. The breath that moves in and out. The presence that witnesses everything. The life that keeps flowing, no matter what stories we tell.

So yes, I’ve come to see that there’s nobody I can really trust — not in the way the world uses the word. And yet, there is something I trust completely. It’s in me, and it is me, and it is far greater than me. It’s the simple, miraculous fact of being alive.

From Personal Delusion to Civilizational Madness: A Cosmic Warning

There is a symmetry in madness: the distortions that unhinge an individual also, when amplified, unravel civilizations. In Cosmos, Carl Sagan warned that advanced life may extinguish itself before reaching the stars—because technology without understanding is lethal. The same stages that mark a mind’s collapse seem to map disturbingly well onto humanity’s current trajectory.

I. The Descent of the Individual Mind

Madness rarely arrives suddenly; it seeps in, layer by layer, as the coherence that once bound perception and truth begins to fray.

1. Denial. It starts with refusal: the unwillingness to see what is. Problems are minimized, dissonance ignored. The person says, “Everything’s fine,” even as cracks appear.

2. Projection. Tension is displaced outward. The cause of suffering is assigned to others—conspirators, enemies, fate—never oneself.

3. Fragmentation. Conflicting emotions and beliefs coexist without resolution. The self becomes divided, incoherent.

4. Delusion. Fiction replaces fact. The inner narrative becomes more compelling than reality.

5. Collapse. When the contradictions can no longer be maintained, the structure falls. The person may implode or lash out, destroying what once sustained them.

The psychiatrist R. D. Laing called this “the divided self”—a being at war with its own reality. The same anatomy, scaled up, applies to nations.

II. Societies in the Mirror

Civilizations, like individuals, show symptoms of their psychic health. Substitute nation for self, and the parallel is chillingly precise.

• Denial: collective blindness to climate change, resource depletion, inequality. “Growth” becomes sacred, even as the planet burns.

• Projection: national myths of purity, scapegoating minorities, blaming “outsiders” for internal contradictions.

• Fragmentation: polarization and echo chambers replace shared reality. Facts are chosen like flavours. Each faction lives in its own constructed world.

• Delusion: propaganda and political theatre masquerade as truth. “Alternative facts” become currency.

• Collapse: when trust evaporates, institutions corrode, and the unintegrated psyche of a civilization turns destructive—often through conflict or ecological ruin.

The occasional absurdity, such as surveys suggesting that millions believe chocolate milk comes from brown cows, is more than comic—it’s symptomatic. It reveals the widening gap between technological sophistication and basic understanding: a culture increasingly disconnected from its own foundations.

III. Sagan’s Cosmic Caution

In Cosmos and later in The Demon-Haunted World, Sagan drew attention to humanity’s dangerous adolescence. We have gained powers once reserved for gods, yet we wield them with the psychology of children.

“We’ve arranged a global civilization in which most crucial elements profoundly depend on science and technology,” he wrote. “We have also arranged things so that almost no one understands science and technology. This combustible mixture of ignorance and power is going to blow up in our faces.”
— Carl Sagan, The Demon-Haunted World (1995)

Technological maturity, he warned, must be matched by emotional and moral maturity. Intelligence alone is not wisdom; cleverness without conscience is suicidal.

To safeguard ourselves, Sagan proposed a “baloney detection kit”: critical thinking, evidence-based reasoning, and the humility to doubt one’s own certainties. Without these, collective sanity erodes under the weight of misinformation and myth.

III½. Richardson’s Curve and the Mathematics of Madness

In Cosmos (1980, Ch. 13 “Who Speaks for Earth?”), Sagan refers to the British mathematician and meteorologist Lewis F. Richardson, who sought to quantify war. By plotting the frequency of conflicts against their magnitude—the number of deaths—Richardson discovered a power-law distribution: many small wars, fewer medium ones, and rare great wars. The curve declines smoothly but never ends. There is no mathematical cutoff.

“On Richardson’s curve,” Sagan observed, “the likelihood of a war that ends civilization is finite.”

In other words, if human behaviour remains unchanged, the probability of a civilization-ending war approaches certainty over time.

The equation becomes a mirror of the mind: just as unacknowledged delusion in an individual culminates in breakdown, unacknowledged aggression in societies culminates in annihilation. The mathematics of conflict, Sagan suggested, is the geometry of our collective insanity.

IV. The Cosmic Silence: The Great Filter

This brings Sagan to a broader speculation. If the universe is filled with planets, why do we not hear from their inhabitants? Perhaps most civilizations destroy themselves before mastering interstellar travel—a concept later called the Great Filter. Intelligence grants species the tools for self-extinction faster than it grants the wisdom to prevent it.

“Once intelligent beings achieve technology and the capacity for self-destruction of their species,” Sagan wrote, “the selective advantage of intelligence becomes more uncertain.”
— Cosmos (1980)

The silence of the cosmos may not signal emptiness, but extinction: countless worlds where beings like us failed the test of maturity. Our own world may stand on that same statistical edge.

V. Diagnosing the Present

Where, then, are we on the scale of madness?

• Denial: We still frame environmental collapse as a future problem, though it unfolds daily.

• Projection: Nations arm themselves in the name of peace, blaming others for insecurity they themselves perpetuate.

• Fragmentation: Social media amplifies every prejudice, feeding algorithmic echo chambers that reward outrage over reflection.

• Delusion: Leaders rewrite history, data is politicized, and “truth” becomes negotiable.

• Pre-collapse symptoms: loss of trust, mass anxiety, democratic erosion, addiction to distraction—each a sign of a mind losing coherence.

The pattern is statistically and psychologically predictable. The only unknown is whether awareness will intervene before mathematics fulfils itself.

V½. The Sycophancy of Madness

When an individual slides into delusion, those around them face a choice: confront the distortion or collude with it. The same holds true for nations. Around narcissistic leaders—figures who mistake themselves for destiny—a culture of sycophancy grows. Truth becomes treason; obedience becomes virtue.

Carl Jung once noted that the mass psyche behaves like an individual magnified. The leader’s grandiosity becomes the people’s identity; his paranoia becomes their foreign policy. Those who feed the illusion are rewarded; those who question it are exiled. Thus, the leader’s narcissism metastasizes into national pathology.

From Moscow to Washington, Beijing to New Delhi, we see variations of the same disease: the substitution of spectacle for substance, the worship of power for its own sake, the merging of personal ego with collective destiny. The tragedy is not merely that such leaders rise—history shows that demagogues always will—but that millions enable them, preferring comforting lies to uncomfortable truths.

As with the deluded mind, this collusion accelerates the approach to collapse. The echo chamber tightens until reality itself becomes the enemy.

VI. The Way Back: Maturity or Extinction

For the individual, recovery from delusion begins with awareness—the painful recognition that one’s map of reality no longer matches the terrain. Healing requires humility, self-inquiry, and integration of the denied parts of the self.

For civilizations, the same applies.

1. Recognize our delusion. Admit the gap between what we claim to value—life, freedom, peace—and what we collectively do.

2. Restore epistemic humility. Teach scepticism, not cynicism; science as a way of questioning, not as dogma.

3. Reintegrate reality. Foster dialogue that values listening over winning. A shared reality is the first condition of sanity.

4. Balance power with self-restraint. Every technological leap demands an equal leap in consciousness.

5. Adopt long-time ethics. Think in generations, not election cycles; in ecosystems, not economies.

These are not utopian ideals but survival strategies. Without them, the next spike on Richardson’s curve may be the final one.

VII. Toward a Saner Mythos

Imagine, then, a civilization that learns to master itself before its machines; that measures progress not in speed or conquest but in understanding. Such a society would see the exploration of space not as escape, but as responsibility—the next phase of awareness.

“The sky calls to us. If we do not destroy ourselves, we will one day venture to the stars.”
— Carl Sagan, Cosmos

Between if and we will lies the entire moral challenge of our species. The instruments of destruction and discovery are already in our hands. Whether they become our suicide or our salvation depends on one question only: Can we learn to be sane together?

References

• Sagan, Carl. Cosmos. Random House, 1980.

• Sagan, Carl. The Demon-Haunted World: Science as a Candle in the Dark. Ballantine, 1995.

• Richardson, Lewis F. Statistics of Deadly Quarrels. Boxwood Press, 1960.

• Laing, R. D. The Divided Self. Penguin, 1960.

• Jung, C. G. The Undiscovered Self. Routledge, 1957.

• Bostrom, Nick. “The Great Filter.” Journal of Philosophy and Cosmology (2008).

• Various quotations verified via goodreads.com, libquotes.com, and en.wikipedia.org.

Form Over Substance – When Rules Eclipse Meaning

One of the oldest and most persistent patterns in human affairs is the way form begins to replace substance. Something fresh, alive, and meaningful takes shape in the world. Over time, it becomes wrapped in procedures, appearances, and rules. Eventually, the outer form takes on more importance than the inner meaning. The packaging overshadows the gift.

This is not just a quirk of history. We can see it everywhere around us today.

Politics without substance

Modern politics has become a theatre of form. Image management dominates decision-making. Politicians are trained in how to appear confident in a debate, how to spin an answer, and how to turn a crisis into a press opportunity. Meanwhile, the deeper questions – the well-being of citizens, the survival of our planet, the long-term future of humanity – are sidelined.

Substance is difficult. It requires hard choices and genuine courage. Form is easier. It can be rehearsed, polished, and packaged for social media clips. That is why politics, almost everywhere, looks more like a performance than an honest attempt to govern.

Religion and the hollowing out of meaning

The same dynamic is visible in religion. What begins as a profound experience of connection or transcendence becomes codified into rituals, doctrines, and rules. Generations later, many followers go through the motions without ever touching the living reality the founder spoke of.

Religions were meant to guide people toward inner peace, love, or union with the divine. But over centuries the forms hardened. Attendance, ritual precision, and obedience often became more important than whether anyone was actually experiencing the depth of what was promised.

It is not unusual to find more passion in arguments about correct interpretation of a rule than in seeking the essence of the teaching itself.

Even fresh movements are vulnerable

This is not confined to politics or religion. Even movements that begin with authenticity can fall into the same trap.

I have long admired Prem Rawat’s message of inner peace and the possibility of experiencing contentment in one’s own life. His focus has always been on practice, on experience, not on belief or ritual. And yet, around his message, as with any movement, structures inevitably grow. Rules appear, processes are put in place, and before long the danger arises that the form begins to overshadow the substance.

To his credit, Prem Rawat consistently warns against this confusion. He reminds people not to mistake the gift for its packaging. The techniques of Knowledge are simple and direct – but the structures that support sharing them must never become more important than the personal experience itself.

Fear as the hidden driver

Why does this happen again and again? Beyond convenience, there is often a deeper reason: fear.

Fear of getting it wrong. Fear of making a mistake. Fear of standing out or being judged.

Form offers protection. If I follow the rules, then at least no one can accuse me of stepping out of line. I can always say, “I did what was required.” That fear-driven need for safety is what makes people cling to form long after the substance has drained away.

But substance requires courage. To seek truth for yourself, to act from conscience, to choose what is right rather than what is safe – that takes a kind of bravery that form cannot supply. Institutions thrive on control and fear of deviation. But human beings thrive on meaning, which only courage can unlock.

The challenge for each of us

The real question is not only about politics, religion, or movements out there. It is about ourselves.

How often do we cling to form in our personal lives because we fear doing the wrong thing? We follow routines, rules, or social expectations without asking whether they still carry meaning. We avoid decisions because they might upset others. We settle for safety instead of substance.

The challenge is to look beyond form and reconnect with substance. In practice, that means asking: Am I going through the motions out of fear, or am I living with the courage to experience the essence of life?

A call to return to what matters

If we can shift our focus back to substance, the world changes. Politics could become about people rather than image. Religion could become about lived connection rather than hollow ritual. And in our own lives, we could find the peace and clarity that comes not from following form, but from having the courage to live substance.

This tension between form and substance runs through much of what I have been writing recently. In Appeasement Then and Now, I explore the dangers of hiding behind appearances while ignoring destructive forces. In Reality Is a Thought, I look at how our perceptions can trap us in forms of belief, unless we learn to go deeper into direct experience.

The theme is always the same: don’t let fear push you into clinging to form when substance is still available.

So I leave you with this question: in your life today, will you choose safety in form, or the courage to live substance?