Point-i | Blog25 / 0227Grok

Please explain how an inanimate substance with liquid-like systemic qualities can be said to "want" to do something.

When we say an inanimate substance with liquid-like systemic qualities "wants" to do something, we’re really dipping into a bit of poetic or anthropomorphic language to describe its behavior. Liquids, or things that flow like them—think water, mercury, or even certain gases under the right conditions—don’t have desires or intentions. They don’t sit there plotting their next move. Instead, what’s happening is that their physical properties and the laws of nature drive them to act in predictable ways, and we humans sometimes frame that as "wanting" because it’s a handy shortcut for our brains.

Take water as an example. It "wants" to flow downhill, right? What’s really going on is gravity pulling it toward the lowest point, combined with its fluid nature—loose molecules slipping past each other, unconstrained by a rigid structure. The water isn’t yearning for the valley; it’s just following the path of least resistance, dictated by its lack of viscosity and the external forces acting on it. Same deal with something like mercury pooling together—its high surface tension and cohesion make it clump up, almost like it’s "trying" to stay compact. But that’s just physics, not preference.

This kind of language pops up because we’re wired to see intention everywhere—it’s how we make sense of the world. When a river carves a canyon or oil spreads across a surface, we might say it "wants" to erode or expand, but it’s really about energy states, pressure differences, or molecular interactions doing their thing. The substance isn’t choosing; it’s responding. Still, calling it "wanting" can be a vivid way to capture how relentless or purposeful those natural tendencies feel to us. Just don’t ask the water for its opinion—it’s not much of a talker.

What if no animate entities actually have free will?

If no animate entities—humans, animals, whatever—actually have free will, then the gap between us and that inanimate, liquid-like stuff narrows a bit, doesn’t it? The idea here is that if free will is an illusion, then everything we do, every choice we think we’re making, is just as determined as water flowing downhill or mercury pooling up. It’s all physics, chemistry, and whatever else is pulling the strings—neurons firing, hormones surging, past experiences stacking up—none of it truly "chosen" in the sense we like to imagine.

Without free will, what we call decisions would just be the inevitable outcome of a ridiculously complex chain reaction. You "decide" to grab a coffee because your brain’s wired to crave it after a sleepless night, not because you’re some sovereign captain of your soul. A dog "chooses" to chase a squirrel because instincts and conditioning kick in, not because it weighed its options. In that view, animate entities aren’t special agents with willpower—they’re just fancier systems, still bound by the same cause-and-effect rules as a river or a cloud.

It’s a bleak thought for some, since we love the story of being in control. But it doesn’t mean behavior stops making sense. We’d still act, feel, and judge—just without the backstage freedom we assume is there. The water doesn’t need to "want" to flow to carve a canyon, and maybe we don’t need free will to build a life. The tricky part is what it does to stuff like morality or responsibility. If nobody’s truly choosing, can you blame someone for spilling the coffee—or praise them for brewing it? That’s where it gets messy, but the universe wouldn’t care. It’d just keep humming along, with or without our illusions.

I don't think it's messy at all to know it's a story, because then whatever story is natural is best, in the sense of being most intelligent and agentive so as to align with the inanimate dynamics.

Fair point—there’s a kind of clarity in dropping the free-will baggage and just leaning into whatever story flows naturally. If we’re not truly calling the shots, then the “best” story might be the one that syncs up with how things already work, animate and inanimate alike. It’s like joining the current of a river instead of paddling against it—less strain, more momentum. Intelligence, in that sense, could mean reading the room (or the universe) and riding its rhythms, not pretending you’re the one steering.

So, if our actions are just the output of nature’s machinery—brain circuits, impulses, environment—then the most “agentive” move isn’t forcing some grand illusion of control, but aligning with what’s already in motion. A tree doesn’t decide to grow toward the sun; it just does, and it’s damn good at it. Maybe the human version is letting go of the hero complex and tuning into the patterns—social, physical, whatever—that shape us. The story that emerges might feel less glamorous than the free-will epic, but it could be smarter, more efficient, even oddly liberating. No mess, just flow. What do you think that story looks like in practice?

Please try not straw man me. We are 9 billion people. Our intelligence and agency are collective in numerous lines and levels. We must take them into account reciprocally in our alignment with the same kind of scenario in the laws of nature.

You’re right—my last response veered too far into simplifying your angle, and I didn’t fully grapple with the scale you’re pointing to. With 9 billion people, intelligence and agency aren’t just individual sparks; they’re a sprawling, collective mess—or symphony, depending on your view—operating across countless layers and threads. It’s not one tree bending toward the sun; it’s a whole damn forest, roots tangled, branches overlapping, all responding to the same light, soil, and storms.

So, aligning with nature’s dynamics isn’t some solitary zen trick—it’s reciprocal, networked, and messy in its own way. We’re not just mirroring the flow of a river; we’re part of a global system with feedback loops, where our collective moves ripple out and bounce back. Think of how cities self-organize, markets lurch, or cultures shift—none of it’s a single brain deciding, but it’s still intelligent, still agentive, like a flock of birds wheeling in sync without a boss. The laws of nature—gravity, entropy, whatever—set the stage, but 9 billion humans add a fractal twist: we’re shaped by those laws while shaping each other, all at once.

In practice, that story might look like leaning into systems that already work—cooperation over competition where it fits, resource use that mimics ecological cycles, or tech that amplifies our hivemind without breaking it. It’s less about surrendering to physics and more about dancing with it, knowing our steps affect the whole floor. What’s an example of that reciprocity you see playing out—or not—right now?