You're Not The Boss Of Me!

Are we fated to make the decisions we do? Or do we actually have some sort of free-will? Is there a higher being that predetermines the course of our lives and we just haven't realized it? Even though we can never know the answers to these questions, I will discuss them with myself in a textual form to be recorded on the interweb. Here goes.

Suppose that we are fated to make all of our decisions, with no real choice involved. Suppose that I was fated to type this blog, and that you were fated to read it. Suppose that all the movements we make in our daily lives were mapped out for us beforehand, and we just didn't know it. How are we to tell that this is not the case? We find ourselves contemplating difficult decisions--whether or not to brush our teeth, how long to wait before starting our work, whether or not to call that person, how much you tell your parents about your weekend--but how do we know whether what we decide was not predetermined before hand? How can we know that our decision has not already been made, and that our contemplations are just a part of  the process?

Maybe free-will exists. Maybe it was my own choice to write this blog at this point in time rather than write my paper. Perhaps you were going to meet somebody but instead you opened your web browser and navigated your way to my blog. It was your choice to waste your time with my waste of time. Maybe some sense of reasoning led you to the conclusion that having that bowl of ice cream could possibly not go to your butt but instead could be compensated for by running for some too-large number of minutes. Maybe you have the ultimate decision over your actions, regardless of other people.

How can we know? There isn't a little angel or devil version of me who appears on my shoulders when I try to make decisions. However, I can't say that there isn't some kind of influence that permeates my subconscious without me knowing. How can I say that it wasn't by the force of an outside being that I chose to wear my sunglasses at night? How can I think that something beyond my control caused me to write exactly what I'm writing right now? Are these truly my thoughts? Or are they merely a sick joke of some greater being, delivered through a carbon-based vessel to confuse other readers? How am I to know? How are you to know?

The answer is simple. You cannot. Isn't that infuriating?