wandering the globe

Writing Prompt: The Wanderer

Tell us about the top five places you’ve always wanted to visit.

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Africa – I would love to visit all parts of Africa and explore this rich continent that I believe is central to humanity’s existence.

Vilcabamba, Ecuador – It is said to be one of the places with the most centenarians on Earth and contains trees with the one of highest oxygen levels. I am drawn to the possibilities in Vilcabamba and have often thought about moving there permanently. I would then love to explore all of South America (Turtle Island).

Vietnam – There is something about Vietnam that intrigues me. I look forward to someday visiting.

Australia – I have always wanted to spend some time with my Koori (Aborigine) brothers and sisters. The island, or mini continent, houses some of the oldest peoples on Earth, many who are losing their culture and identity with each passing day.

India – India is filled with amazing history. Exploring it, I imagine, would introduce me to a rich culture and provide me with many rewarding experiences.

There are so many other places I’d love to explore, including every island on Earth. But my top five are the places I’d love to begin my exploration of planet Earth. Sadly, this planet has devolved into a monetary system which limits our ability to explore the planet.

modern day epistolary

Writing Prompt: Handwriting

Write a new post in response to today’s one-word prompt.

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I love nothing more than hand written letters. I’ve always wanted to find a pen pal whom I can write snail mail letters to, to get the feel of what it was like to anticipate a response, rather than email, text or instant message that provides real time conversation.

Knowing a letter is in a person’s handwriting feels more personal. It’s as though I am reading a piece of their soul. They took time to engage with the paper, prepare the envelope, lick and apply the stamp and take the letter to the post office. There is something beautiful about this process.

If anyone ever wanted to correspond with me via snail mail, all they need do is say the word.

random thoughts #1

No one wants to hear that there are days when I feel so afraid that all I want is for the world to end so that everything that makes it ugly would disappear and never return. No one wants to know that some days I go out on my porch at midnight, lay on my back, look up at the stars, and wonder if there are other worlds teaming with life, without war, without sadness, without all the things that make me want to leave here. There are days when I want to be abducted in hopes that the grass just might be greener on the other side of this galaxy. But there may not be something else out there. Maybe I only want there to be so I can escape this equal share of paradise and prison.

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No one wants to entertain my thoughts about the beauty and wretchedness of humanity. Because those who see it as beautiful or ugly don’t want to see the other side of their vision. It’s all too temporary to worry about. Where you are in your mind determines which you see, which you view as temporary first. I look painfully at us and other living things that equally have a right to determine the future of this planet, but are not allowed to do so. Animals are abused, trees are abused, every thing that exists upon this land is abused—we are abused.

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But we are loved—at times. I see this creep in and I smile. But then I see it quickly fleet away with each new report of humans killing other humans. Still, the love lives in tiny spaces, in the gentle whispers followed by soft touches that tell more than words need to. The love lives in the glass of water brought to my bedside when I am sick. It lives in the smile I receive when I leave my belief riddled intentions behind and let need appear on its own, then, when asked, I help, and not merely to satiate my need to be seen or seem good. Ego cannot live inside true love. Ego eclipses all things impure. Ego causes pain and makes me forget that others have mind and needs and beliefs and ideas. And sometimes, those ideas won’t be mine, and that’s ok. They shouldn’t be. And I shouldn’t force what I believe on anyone. I shouldn’t steal little children from their villages and take them to mine to teach them about my god. I shouldn’t cut their hair and tell them that their language is inferior and that they should never speak it again, ever. Ego, fear and impertinence does this. I have no right to do this to anyone. Because they live here, just like I do, in their skin, believing what they believe. And they didn’t come to me and take me from my beliefs by force.

But my truth is hard. My truth sends me within. So I go there and let the layers peel back.

Humans can be ugly beings, with beautiful ideas not yet born. When the ideas exit the mind-womb, we become creators of things. Sometimes the creations are words and symbols strung together to form possibilities never before imagined. These take shape and give us something to do while we figure out why we are here. In my world of truth, I am too afraid to tell anyone that in truth, we know nothing. I cannot argue whether all things can be knowable, because that also falls into the realm of that which we do not know. But for now, the fact remains that no matter what we all believe, no matter what belief we latch on to, a god, no god, creation, evolution, a big bang, at the end of it all, we have no way of knowing (at the moment) any of the things we claim as the source of our existence. Because we weren’t there at the start of it all to claim it as the end of the conversation. While not impossible, we may never find the truth, because that would require a time machine that could take us back to the start of it all, to a god, to a molecule, a gas, a speck of matter-less formless darkness with sentience or without, where we could sit and watch what that first event looked like that has led us to where we are now, in this space, on this planet, at this keyboard, with me typing words given to me by those who came before me, insufficient words that do nothing to express the depths of what I am thinking and feeling. What I feel and conceptualize have no symbols that can form my thoughts into something tangible for all to understand. So I write this not in hopes of coming to an understanding, or to somehow bring clarity, but to simply write and vomit forth these simplistic symbols that are a poor substitute for what I imagine psychic abilities would solve.

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No one wants to hear that I think we are all children on this planet, spiritual infants crying for mother’s breast milk. Violence—wars, murders, abuse of any kind—are the telltale signs of our infancy. We’ve been taught to see this as a normal part of humanity, rather than an abnormal part of our spiritual existence—if there is even a spirit to point to. This could all be a waste of time, the notion of spirit and purpose. Writing this could be a waste of time and energy, a pointless musing leading to a pointless end. So few can hear this. Because we’ve been taught that energy never dies, so even if we have discarded the notion of god, we’ve given ourselves another god, energy. So now, we latch on to that, and claim it as our new truth, when in fact, without the benefit of a couple thousand years to physically and continuously observe energy, we actually do not know how it behaves. Maybe we perceive it as not ending because of our limited observation. In fact, it could die, after a mere one thousand years, and from another source, new energy is born. Simply put, maybe energy isn’t immortal, but because we are not immortal and can live only a century at a time at most, we have yet to know that energy is mortal, and may very well die after a thousand years or more once we closely observe it from a specific source under controlled conditions. So few want to hear my mind and my truths, because who am I? I am just some chick, typing words on a screen, thinking. Thinking. Thinking. And feeling. And wondering like so many before me have wondered. See, I’m not supposed to think, because the world has taught us that only those with a degree in what they are thinking about are allowed to speak. But science did not develop merely from experiments, all science begins with the idea.

I am an idea, maybe. Possibly. Imagine I am an idea born from a mind that is no god, but merely alien species. Maybe we are the dreams of another species and we think of ourselves as real. Maybe when we die, that is the species waking from its dream.

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No, my truths aren’t worth hearing or reading. My ideas aren’t for the Earth bound. They come from a place of pain. They come from wanting a better world, one that isn’t filled with fear and ego that drives man and woman to behave as though in an insane asylum. I want us all to say, “I don’t know.” I want us to chant it until it melds into our DNA and seeps into generation after generation. I want us to be humble, say it, admit that we don’t know, so that the madness can stop and we can refrain from forcing ourselves and ideas and truths on others, but rather, let all our truths and all our ideas just be a conversation, a bucket filled with thoughts that we see and can drink from if we wish, not by force.

I don’t know anything. All I’ve written can be discarded. I am not attached to it in any way. Much of what I’ve written could be right, but it could all be wrong. Maybe I’ve said too much, or nothing at all of importance. It’s all convoluted to some and coherent to others, it depends on where you are inside yourself. At the end of the day, it doesn’t really matter much, because it’s all just a question. I release the answers to whatever is out there, a god, the universe, nirvana, the darkness, the light, you, me, the nothingness. I release all the symbols typed on this screen. They are not mine, really. They belong to nothing and no one. They are thoughts that float in and out of my consciousness. I fearlessly release them, yet fearfully hope for the answers to come, for something to come. Maybe all I need is a time machine, to take me back to the beginning of it all. Maybe then we can all relax, leave each other alone and enjoy whatever this is we are living. Maybe.

the dust that i am

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I’ve come to realize over the years that my existence is like a tiny atom/molecule/single celled creature under a microscope; a tiny speck of dust on some distant planet in some distant galaxy, in a possibly distant universe ensconced within another atom filled with universes. And that atom that houses many universes is a single atom within yet a larger omni-verse filled with similar universe carrying atoms. And, even with that notion on the table, it is still not a sure thing. The cosmos are filled with endless possibilities about our existence that we cannot begin to fathom, or even understand. We are the dust of stars, the dust of worlds created, powerful, but small, wandering around trying to grasp why we are here, when in fact, we may never find the answer. We can only hope that at the end of this earthly journey, there really is something waiting for us; something amazing and wonderful, that revelation, Nirvana, something to make our experiences here have meaning and purpose. Something. Anything.

uncaged voice

Writing Prompt: Voice

Write a new post in response to today’s one-word prompt.

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i am trembling voice. i am fear finding footing and tongue. i am freedom picking the lock to my cage with skeleton key words that find their way through tumblers and springs. the door will open and i will be set upon the oppressed world, unlocking the black and gold bars of those who couldn’t see their cage. tongue lashing, words whipping, voice shaking hills upon hills of status quo. i will swing cages wide and far and let my voice spill into the streets, words littering roads, blocking hate and ego from passage. i am voice flying without wings into future worlds; fast, furious, naked for all to see. i am trembling…no longer from fear. but because my voice needs to heal; it must heal or i’ll die. it must reach ears that want peace and freedom, so they will know how uncaged voice can change the trajectory of existence. how uncaged voice can change everything that i am. how uncaged voice can set fire to the silence.

writing to dissolve cages

Writing Prompt: Singular Sensation

If one experience or life change results from you writing your blog, what would you like it to be?

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Something is here, among us, changing everything that we are. – me

I would want that my writing experience free me in the way described by Osho.

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I want to fearlessly write from every part of me, without worry as to how people might judge what I have to say. This life change would turn me on my axis and free me from the words I cage myself in with.

I want to write as though the world were in a relatively perfect state of acceptance of all created and manifested ideas. This would change me in ways even I cannot begin to imagine. I strive for this goal—it would make me feel relatively free.

virtual window to my soul

Writing Prompt: Mirror, Mirror, On the Wall

Think of your blog as a mirror: what does it reveal? Consider your blog name, theme choice, design, bio, posts… what does every element tell you about yourself?

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To be honest, I’m not sure what my blog reveals about me. At least not on a deep level. I suppose the most evident and surface aspect of my blog is that I’m a writer. One might gather that I’m drawn to quality images and nature. Some might notice that I am constantly experimenting with ideas. My layout could say that I like to be simple, yet informative. Overall, my blog might show, for some, that I enjoy thinking outside of the status quo and I like to explore whatever comes to my mind.

wickedness unbound

Writing Prompt: Wicked Witch

Write about evil: how you understand it (or don’t), what you think it means, or a way it’s manifested, either in the world at large or in your life.

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I don’t understand evil. The desire to be evil eludes me beyond the very basic instinct to defend myself against someone who attempts to harm me. Defense is a very different animal that I don’t view as unfolding in the same way that evil unfolds.

I don’t understand the desire to murder, torture, oppress, control others and control the land. I meditate daily on why I have zero desire for power, brutality and control while many seem to thrive off controlling others, and, always seeming to want to control them to the detriment of their very existence.

From what I’ve observed, evil behavior seems to have a pattern, and, sadly, a face. It would be far too painful to get into what the face looks like, but from my personal experience and historical research, the face seems rarely to change. At this juncture, only a handful of Indigo-like souls have the desire to transform our world into one that will be truly free. My hope has always been that I could live to see this new more peaceful and free world ushered in. But it seems that will not be the case.

A luta continua.

a sobering existence

I’ve been traveling most of the week. My very good friend’s grandmother died and I wanted to be there for her. Her grandmother was an incredibly prepared woman. She planned every aspect of her funeral down to the coffin, memorial cards and obituary. There was nothing that needed to be done or paid for except for my friend to pick out a dress for her dear grandmother.

Funerals are sobering. They remind me of our ever present, unrelenting mortality.

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fearless in dusty blue

Writing Prompt: Fearless

Write a new post in response to today’s one-word prompt.

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Sadly, what I’m about to write is not fiction. It is a very real conversation from a few days ago with a young 20 something who made a most unfortunate discovery. Her experience once again shows me that everything has changed, but nothing is different.

Earth. What a strange, familiar, beautiful, ugly, amazing, disgusting, wonderful, heartbreaking planet I live on.

zaji

The day was a dusty blue four days ago. The drive to the supermarket was uneventful. Cars moved through green and yellow lights like bumps in a caterpillar. Some turned into Wendy’s, others into Walmart. Some headed for Office Depot or DollarTree. All of them toward something in their future. We were headed for the fruits and vegetables aisles. We talked and laughed and remembered the lemon yellow morning on a dusty blue canvas.

The girl, she was white. We call her acquaintance, sometimes friend. We’ve known her for only about a year with distance between the times when we speak. She is always all smiles, teeth white, cheeks pink, hair dark and quasi goth. She is medium height. Not fat, not skinny. Black work pants fitted snug. She didn’t belong there though, in those aisles. She had quit her job three months ago to go away to college in Jackson, Mississippi. But she was back now, in the chain supermarket aisle talking to us and working the self checkout line like a champ. She told us why she’d come back. It was against her will, but equally willed by her desire to not be transformed into something ugly.

She almost bubbled as she said, “My grandparents are racist!” We gasped in semi surprise, because in our brown skin this was not news. She said she showed them her friends on her tiny phone screen. Small figures locked inside an electronic device that doesn’t care who you are or what you look like. It just saves you there, suspended in time for as long as the device remains on. She was all smiles when she showed them her friends, her second family. They saw the brown faces and gasped in utter horror. Surprise was not enough for them, they needed something bigger, more theatrical.

They said they loved her. But at the end of our beliefs, what is love? Real love.

She said she never got to meet her father. He died when she was little; at least that is how I recalled the detail about her father. The bigness of her story distorts the details though. Only the feeling remains, the feeling of again. Always it reappears. Again. And again. And then only the words that stab are remembered as though set on fire in front of you.

This was her first time meeting her father’s parents, her paternal grandparents. They welcomed her. They bought her a brand new computer for school. They said they would be happy to have her stay with them while she attended college. She could not afford to stay on campus, so their gift to her was right on time. But the brown people in her phone changed everything. Her grandparents didn’t know that she was a “nigger lover”. They told her that as long as she had nigger friends, she couldn’t stay with them and would no longer be welcomed in their home. She had to leave.

She smiled at us and said she couldn’t believe they were racist. But I could believe, because I live inside my brown skin—everyday. I see the good and bad of people who are not brown. Sometimes it’s beautiful. Sometimes it’s ugly. Sometimes it’s indifferent. Always it’s human. At times, to me, inhuman. Her smile, though, didn’t hide her pain. I saw deep inside her. She wondered about it all. But did she wonder if it was worth it? I don’t know. She, too, was human. And the wondering would have been human if it ever nudged her.

Her grandparents were human. Too human—whatever that might mean. She ultimately agreed with them and left. Because she would not give up her brown friends to satisfy their pathological condition. She would not compromise. So she fearlessly let go of an important part of her future, her college education, and returned to Laurel, Mississippi.

She returned to checkout lines and standing on her feet all day. She returned to minimum wage and a foggy future thick with uncertainty and long years of ladders leading to nowhere. She was a nigger lover. That is what they said. She did not deserve a comfortable and certain future. She deserved only scorn for knowing us and all the other faces in her phone, faces that stained her life brown and stymied her future.

I left the imposing supermarket feeling sad for her. She really was fearless. She could have erased the still brown bodies in her phone, the smiles she shared with them and enjoy college and a life outside of the aisles. But she didn’t. She let it go, for now, to fearlessly preserve her moral standards, dignity and belief that we are all people. We are all…human.

food and the body

I attended a nutrition seminar today. It was refreshing to see a nurse practitioner who actually addressed eating habits when faced with patients with serious health problems. So few in the medical industry address the foods we eat as one of the major causes of most dis-ease. Processed foods are destructive to our system, tossing it out of balance and causing cocaine like addiction eating habits.

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She talked about the foods that make us well and those that make us unwell. The room bubbled with questions and surprise at the many revelations about what we eat and how the body functions (reacts) when we intake certain foods.

It was a good evening. Very informative.

yawning to the sun

Writing Prompt: Just Another Day

Our days our organized around numerous small actions we repeat over and over. What’s your favorite daily ritual?

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Each morning when I awake I enjoy looking out the window at the sun. The sun reminds not only that I was able to see another day, but that we, as a species, exist on this world due in no small part to the sun.

The sun reminds me that we exist in a magical way we cannot begin to imagine or comprehend. The sun feeds the majority of green life forms on this planet, which thereby produce food for us. It’s an awe inspiring cycle we are still trying to decipher.

The sun is renewal and a reminder that nothing is impossible.

upon the shelf

Writing Prompt: Shelf

Write a new post in response to today’s one-word prompt.

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Little eight year old girls make soccer balls in Pakistan; fingers roughened by sturdy leather, needles and thick thread. Bottoms hover just above dirt paved streets as they squat to work under the noon’s blazing sun hanging from a low sky. Bodies covered head to toe to respect the social order. No one cares that she is hot and only eight. Grown men still have hungry eyes, the soccer balls must be done in time for worldwide entertainment, and $3 per day is needed to buy a morsel to eat. Some days, it might only be $1. It’s better than nothing. Better than starvation and maybe death.

I place my heart on a shelf to relieve the pain of what I see. I won’t let it beat inside my chest because it might destroy me. Or I may tear it out and thrust it like a cannon ball upon those responsible for innocence lost.

Instead, I leave it there, upon the shelf, gathering dust and tears. The tears were meant for me. But the dust belongs to the shelf and the shadows.

My heart waits for me there, on the highest shelf, out of reach. I leave it there, so the pain cannot reach me where I need to hide.

© zaji, 2016

the need for thought

To doubt everything or to believe everything are two equally convenient solutions; both dispense with the need for thought. – Henri Poincare

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What a profound truth. I find that most people are at one end or another, but rarely in a space of thoughtful introspection and observation.

I try at all times to examine all beliefs and possibilities in my power to know or that can be knowable. As the quote expresses, I don’t doubt everything, nor do I believe everything. I attempt to see things as they are.

It is freeing because I no longer am bound to a singular way of seeing the world. I have the freedom to think expansively rather than thinking from inside the box of doubt or belief.

nocturne

Sitting inside myself, watching myself, seeing me as an observer, and allowing the world to pass through me, through my skin. I am really here, experiencing this existence. I see other people experiencing their existence and seeing the world from perspectives I could never imagine.

Tchaikovsky’s Nocturne op. 19 played by Nina Kotova is the mood these thoughts place me in. I sit in silence and listen. I let the art vibrate through me.

i’m not coming back

Writing Prompt: Karma Chameleon

Reincarnation: do you believe in it?

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I neither believe nor disbelieve. I don’t know and would never pretend to know. What I’m clear about are the many questions I have about the idea of reincarnation if it does exist. Based on the conclusions I’ve come to, I absolutely under no circumstances would want to come back to this planet until it has matured to a point of relative peace and true freedom.

The way things are at the moment, I would be terrified to reincarnate on Earth. If reincarnation is real and against my will, I’d like to reincarnate on a different world in an entirely different galaxy, FAR from this one, and have the opportunity to live in peace for a few thousand years (maybe a few million) to make up for this place. If it is by my will, I would not want to incarnate again in a body, especially a human body. Not until some spiritual maturity has occurred. Further, again if by my will, I’d like to have a different cosmic experience that does not entail me having to deal with cruelty and oppression.

Believers in reincarnation believe that we pick our incarnation. Well, if I picked this, I was a blithering idiot and I needed my spiritual head checked. I feel zero desire to come back over and over to attempt to help souls that clearly don’t seem to want help. How many times would I need to put myself through this abuse? Then, to put myself through the abuse and not even leave myself with memories of WHY I’m doing this to myself? I can’t. I don’t want to come back. No thanks. I’m good.

It was an interesting run here. I’ve learned a few things. But there is nothing for me to learn from violence, abuse, oppression and others forcing me to live their way of life. Some people are beautiful, many are ugly; there is nothing here I want to do for this planet unless I am given effective and powerful tools and my memory in tact so that I can advance things more quickly and KNOW that there is something I need to do and have the ability to gauge (measure) the progress. Right now, I don’t even know how many levels there are to this reincarnation idea and how long each level takes to achieve. 100 years? 1,000 years? A million years? How many times would I need to do this madness before I can get out of the insanity? The very thought of considering coming back to help fills me with anxiety. I don’t know…I really don’t.

As it stands, let some other souls attempt to raise the vibrations of these infantile souls who love war, prejudice, bias, murdering, stealing, lying, abusing, oppressing, to name a few horrific things I’ve seen humans do to each other, animals and the planet. I’ve had my fill and can’t imagine why I would ever want to come back here. The possibility could exist that there are more spiritually mature worlds to incarnate on; why can’t I go there if I have no choice but to reincarnate?

Absent that, leave me wherever I am when I’m gone. Oblivion is better that this craziness. I’d much rather reincarnation either doesn’t exist, or I have the CHOICE to incarnate someplace beautiful, peaceful and free for a very long time—like, for thousands of years.

the longing

Writing Prompt: Longing

Write a new post in response to today’s one-word prompt.

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I am longing for true freedom, bedecked in translucent gems and emerald silk lace.
Freedom that is jackfruit and ginep sweet.
Mango flesh on my wanting tongue.
Feeding me a ripe future.
I want freedom unbound, chain-less and naked in wide open fields.
Borderless freedom where dividing lines are a figment of my imagination.
A nightmare worth disgorging from my psyche.
I am longing for a self that knows only fruit trees and warm waters.
Brown flesh bathed in orange sunlight on sandy shores.
Waters that speak my name.
Freedom comes in waves.
Rushing over starfish and seaweed.
Over wiggling uncovered toes.
I am longing for authentic life.
I am longing for what could be.

laughter off limits

Writing Prompt: Too Soon?

Can anything be funny, or are some things off limits?

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Given the nature of the culture, there are definitely some things that are off limits. How does one make funny the murder of an infant? What sort of joke can be created around children who are beheaded and blown to bits because of the quarrels of adults? No, everything cannot be made into a joke. Some things are beyond the boundaries of amusement and should not be made light of.

If we attempt to mock certain human experiences by creating jokes to belittle the severity of one’s painful experiences, we come dangerously close to losing our humanity.

seeking bridges to cross

Writing Prompt: Divide

Write a new post in response to today’s one-word prompt.

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The world is divided. Some humans are at odds with nature and each other, even at odds with their own soul. There are no bridges in sight, no passageways back to each other. Most are lost in their own survival, to stressed to realize that our collective survival is what will heal our individual ability to survive. We cannot be divided on the future of this planet or we will find ourselves in brave new worlds that will force us to conform to an oppressive way of life that enslaves everyone, across all belief systems and races. We need to build bridges, sturdy bridges. We need to find balance.