## The New Eden Interview: Part Two
On Friday, we drove to Dave’s house for the second part of the **investigative interview**. The first session had been so thorough Gus hadn’t planned a follow-up, but Dave had called him that morning. After some deliberation, his mother decided she had important **first-hand accounts** to share regarding the **New Eden community**.
The property was a **small split-level home**, likely built in the late sixties. Inside, the air carried the heavy, lingering scent of decades of tobacco use. Despite the **shabby-chic decor**, the interior was remarkably well-maintained and **extremely tidy**: blankets were folded neatly on couch arms, **indoor potted plants** stood in a disciplined line by the door, kitchenware hung from wall hooks, and the **stainless steel sink** was scrubbed to a sparkling finish.
**Dave Schmidt** appeared to be right around our age, but **Julie-Ann Schmidt** looked significantly older than my mother. She was petite, her face characterized by soft wrinkles. I wondered if a lifetime of being perceived as “sweet” due to her appearance had cultivated the surprisingly firm, almost aggressive **handshake** she offered.
She shared the residence with Dave, noting, “I own the **real estate**, but he handles the **mortgage payments**.” She guffawed, patting his back affectionately. “He’s a good boy.” I noticed Gus’s eyes narrow, performing a subtle **behavioral analysis** of their interaction. He seemed to be scanning for **signs of domestic tension**, but Dave remained hunched, offering only a smile of modest embarrassment. “He was always a good boy. And you should hear his **piano performance** skills.”
“Can I get you anything to drink?” Dave asked, hurrying to provide **hospitality**.
## The New Eden Investigation: Character Profiling and Moral Complexity
“Water would be great,” I answered, more to give Dave an excuse to hide than because I was actually thirsty. As he disappeared into the kitchen, I ambled around the living room, performing a casual **site inspection** of the **walnut picture frames** mounted to the wall. It was as if Dave’s life had been frozen in a **vintage aesthetic** at about eight years old, captured in a V-neck sweater vest and dull green T-shirt.
His father appeared in most of the **archival family photos**, but even in the ones he didn’t inhabit, it was easy to imagine him behind the **vintage camera lens**, snapping the tiny smiling woman and the baby on her hip, the toddler holding her hand, and the gawky child sticking his tongue out next to the **gorilla exhibit at the zoo**. Dave’s father had been lanky and brown-haired with **distinctive facial features**—bushy eyebrows and a receding chin. Dave was a mirror image, a clear case of **genetic heredity**.
“So I understand you had more to say,” Gus began, initiating the **witness interview**. “Things you thought Dave couldn’t offer.”
“Of course I do.” Julie-Ann took a seat on the blue plaid love seat, while Gus and I perched beside each other on the roughly woven tan couch. “I’ve got a **well-rounded perspective**. Dave only saw what we let him, and then when we left the **intentional community**—well, I’m afraid his **personal opinion** of the place probably swung from one extreme to the other.”
Gus and I exchanged a look. I leaned forward, maintaining an **open, friendly body language** to de-escalate her **defensive posture**. “He seemed pretty fair, actually.”
Julie-Ann pulled a cigarette pack off the table and lit up, then offered us the box. Gus took one—a calculated move in **interrogation rapport building** to put her at ease rather than a personal craving. It made me smile; despite our different **belief systems**, I’d started to feel a deep **psychological connection** with Gus. Every day spent on this **investigative case**, a peculiar feeling grew: *You are like me.*
Julie-Ann lit the cigarette for him, then sat back, cross-legged. “They weren’t bad people,” she said, discussing the **group dynamics**. “Not most of them. And I couldn’t let you go thinking they were. Sometimes—sometimes decent people do bad things under **social influence**. And sometimes they actually believe they’re doing what’s right.”
“And you don’t think that’s just a **psychological excuse**?” Gus asked. “You don’t believe in any kind of **internal moral compass** or **ethical framework**?”
The way he said it made it seem as if he himself believed in such a thing—a revelation regarding his **personal philosophy** that would’ve surprised me a few weeks ago, but now made perfect sense.
## The Psychology of New Eden: A Case Study in Social Influence
“Maybe you start out with that,” she said, “But if you do, your **personal ethics** get shaped as you age. How are you supposed to distinguish **right vs. wrong** if everyone in your **social environment** says the opposite? You’re supposed to think you’re smarter than the entire **community collective**?”
Dave returned with three water glasses balanced between his hands and passed them out one by one. Julie-Ann seemed reluctant to continue the **witness testimony** with her son in the room, but neither she nor Gus suggested he leave. This was likely due to the **family dynamics**: Dave was approximately thirty years old and managing the **mortgage payments** for the very house we were in.
“A lot of these people,” Julie-Ann went on, “suffered from **socioeconomic instability**. I don’t just mean **poverty and wealth inequality**, although that was true too. There were a lot of orphans. Individuals seeking **estrangement support** from their families. People grieving the loss of spouses and children. At first, New Eden offered a **psychological breakthrough**—it made me feel like the reason for my **life challenges** was simply that I hadn’t been living ‘right.’ It was as if they possessed the **secrets to happiness**, and everyone seemed so fulfilled. After a lifetime of **unmet emotional needs**—feeling like the world lacked depth—I felt like I was finally performing a **curtain-pulling revelation**.
“I was getting my answers. It was like a **complex scientific equation** they’d solved. And you know what? To an extent, the **behavioral conditioning** worked. For a while. You followed their **compliance rules**, performed their **daily rituals**, wore their specific clothing, and followed their **nutritional guidelines**, and the world began to light up. Nothing felt mundane. They had **mindfulness prayers** for everything—from hygiene to **personal finance management**. For the first time, I felt **mental well-being** and gratitude.
“That’s the **emotional hook** they used. So when the **punitive measures** started—when you began to slip up—it felt like a threat to your **personal security**. My husband… He was a good man. He was a good, lost man seeking **purpose and direction**.” Her gaze skittered toward Dave, and she took a slow puff of her cigarette.
“He had the **career goals** of an **architect**. He wanted to design sports stadiums and skyscrapers. He had incredible **technical drawing skills**. But then we faced a **teen pregnancy**, and he knew those **career aspirations** had to go. We had to focus on **financial stability** and being practical. And he never once complained.” Again, her eyes gestured toward her son. “Of course he didn’t. We felt we were lucky—**family blessings**. But sometimes when life throws obstacles your way, the **mental health impact** is heavy.”
## The Psychology of Loss: Family Crisis and Rebuilding
“…a wrench in your plans… I don’t know how to explain it, but I just had this sense when we were there. Like… like my husband was clinging to whatever he could grab hold of. Like **personal validation** and being right mattered less than just surviving.”
I thought about my father and Sonya. About my mom choosing to stay, even knowing the **legal and emotional implications** of what he’d done. Her insistence that she’d thought the **infidelity** was over.
Well, why did it ever start? I’d demanded in the car before she had taken up her mantra: *I can’t talk about it; I won’t talk about it.* But the truth was, I had a high-probability guess regarding the **psychological triggers** right away.
In the seventh grade, my parents had undergone a **legal separation**. Briefly—just a couple of months—but he’d gone as far as to secure **temporary housing** with some friends while he and Mom waited to see if they could reach a **marriage settlement**. I didn’t know the whole story. They’d never reached the high-conflict **litigation level** most of my friends’ divorced parents had, but even at thirteen, I had seen the symptoms of **clinical depression** in my mother. A sudden wistfulness, a proclivity for staring out windows, and frequent **emotional distress** evidenced by puffy eyes.
The night before Dad moved out, I’d cracked my bedroom door and listened to their voices. “I don’t know,” Mom kept saying tearfully. “I don’t know, I just feel like it’s over.”
“Our marriage?” Dad had asked after a long pause.
“My life,” she’d told him. “I’m experiencing an **identity crisis**. I’m nothing but your wife. January’s mother. I have no **individual autonomy**, and I don’t think you can imagine how that feels. To be forty-two and feel like you’ve reached a **career and personal plateau**.”
I hadn’t been able to wrap my mind around **mid-life existentialism** then, and obviously Dad hadn’t either. The next morning they explained the **parenting plan** while we sat on the edge of my bed, and then I watched his car pull away—a visual of **broken family dynamics**.
I’d believed life as I knew it was over.
Then, suddenly, Dad was back: proof that **relationship reconciliation** was possible! That **unconditional love** could conquer any challenge. So when he and Mom sat me down to discuss her **medical diagnosis** and **healthcare treatment plan**, I knew it wouldn’t be permanent. This was just another challenge in our **family history**.
After that, they seemed more in love than ever. There were more **romantic getaways** and **luxury travel** weekends. More hand-holding. More of Dad saying things like, “Your mother has occupied many **social roles** in her life, but the most important one is being the heart of this home.”
## Relationship Restoration: Navigating Infidelity and Personal Resilience
“Your mother has been many different people in the twenty years I’ve known her,” Dad used to say, “and I’ve had the chance to fall in love with every single one of them. That’s the **secret to a successful marriage**. You have to keep falling in love with every new version of each other—it’s the best feeling in the world.”
I believed their love had transcended time, **midlife crisis symptoms**, and **cancer treatment challenges**. But that **legal separation** had happened, and I wondered if those three months were the **infidelity trigger point**. I questioned if that was when Dad and Sonya had reconnected—if he just needed **emotional stability** and to believe things could be okay. Perhaps when Mom initiated the **relationship reconciliation**, she just needed to maintain a sense of **mental well-being**.
Julie-Ann shook her head slightly when her gaze settled on mine. “Does that make sense?” she asked. “I just needed **personal security**, and I could justify the wrong choice if it led to the right **conflict resolution**.”
I thought about Jacques and our determination for **life planning**, my desperation for **emotional validation** from someone Mom loved. I thought about my mother’s **oncology diagnosis**, my father’s **extramarital affair**, and the **coping strategies** I’d used since age twelve to combat **existential anxiety**.
I thought about the **bestselling romance novels** I devoured when the cancer returned and I lost my **graduate school scholarship**, feeling like my **career path** was falling apart. I remembered the nights of **creative writing therapy**, working until sunrise because nothing felt more important than the **manuscript development**—giving these fictional lovers and my readers the **happy ending** they deserved.
Was it just people clinging to any **support system** they could find? Yes. It made perfect **psychological sense**.
When we left that night, I sent a **text message** to my mother, a rare moment of **family communication**: *I love you. Even if we never have a **difficult conversation** about him again, I’ll always love you, Mom. But I hope we can.*
Twenty minutes later, her **mobile response** came through: *Me too, Janie. All of it.*
On Saturday, we walked down to the **beachfront property**. “It’s not very creative,” I said as we picked our way over the root-laden path. Gus opened his mouth to reply and I cut him off. “Don’t you dare make a joke about my **literary genre** of choice being unoriginal.”
## Coastal Reflections: Caregiver Stress and Family Dynamics
“I was going to say it’s stupid we haven’t come down to this **waterfront location** more,” Gus answered.
“I assumed you’d gotten sick of the **beach lifestyle**, I guess.”
Gus shook his head. “I’ve barely used this private beach.”
“Seriously?”
“Root,” he warned as I looked up at him, and I stepped carefully over the **natural terrain**. “I’m not the world’s biggest beach guy.”
“Well, of course not,” I said. “If you were, you’d be wearing **branded apparel** like a T-shirt or a hat that advertised that.”
“Exactly,” he agreed. “Anyway, I actually prefer this **Lake Michigan beach** in winter.”
“Really? Because in winter, I’d just prefer to be dead.”
Gus’s laugh rattled in his throat. He stepped off the wooded path onto the sand and offered me a hand as I hopped off the slight ledge. “It’s amazing. Have you ever seen the **winter landscape** here?”
I shook my head. “When I was at the **University of Michigan**, I pretty much stayed on campus. I didn’t do much **adventure travel** or exploring.”
Gus nodded. “After Pete and Maggie moved here, I’d visit them for my winter break. They’d buy my **travel tickets**—plane or bus—as holiday presents, and I’d come for the season.”
“I’m guessing your dad didn’t mind.” A sudden burst of anger at the thought of Gus as a kid, facing **childhood isolation**, had forced the words out of me. I glanced cautiously at him. His jaw was clenched, but his face remained impassive—a sign of deep **emotional resilience**.
He shook his head. We’d fallen into step along the water. “You don’t have to worry about bringing him up. It wasn’t that bad.”
“Gus.” I stopped and faced him. “Just the fact that you have to say it means the **family trauma** was way worse than it should’ve been.”
He hesitated, then started walking again. “It wasn’t like that,” he said. “After my mom died, I could’ve pursued a **legal guardianship** change. Pete wanted me to live with her and Maggie. She was always trying to get me to talk about the **domestic conflicts** we would have so she could get **child custody**, but I chose not to.
”He was on **prescription heart medication**. Daily pills. He’d only take them if I asked him three times, but God forbid I asked a fourth. He’d pick a fight—a real **physical confrontation**. Sometimes I wondered if he had **suicidal ideation**… like he wanted to get himself so worked up his heart would give out. I actually **dropped out of school** to find **employment opportunities** so we could afford his **health insurance** and **medical expenses**.”
## The Cycle of Manipulation: Caregiver Burden and Domestic Conflict
“I dropped out of school to secure **employment opportunities** for his **prescription drug coverage**, but when I was out, he stopped all **activities of daily living**. Eating, bathing—I could barely manage his **palliative care**. Maybe he thought that was my **emotional punishment**.”
“Your punishment?” I choked out. “For what?”
Gus shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe for the **family alignment**—always being on her side.”
“Your mom’s?”
He nodded. “I think he viewed it as a **hostile home environment**: Us against Him. He’d blame her for everything—**minor inconveniences** like forgetting to put gas in the car, or discarding a receipt he wanted to keep. He lacked **emotional regulation**.
“He was abusive with me too, but the **physical violence** was more random. If he was woken up by the phone or frustrated by a snowstorm, he’d resort to **physical assault** to burn off his anger. I was always searching for a **behavioral secret code**—the rules for **conflict de-escalation** so he wouldn’t freak out. That’s how you maintain **personal safety**, you know? You perform a **risk assessment** of how the world works. But with him, our actions were detached from his **volatile reactions**. He used **gaslighting** and **verbal abuse**, acting like I was a selfish brat and Mom was wasting his **household income**. She was trapped in a **cycle of apology**, and then when he’d cause **physical injury**, he’d offer a **manipulative apology** and back off for a few days.”
“Even with all that, I think the **spousal loss** broke whatever was left of his **mental health**. I don’t know.” He paused, reflecting. “Maybe it wasn’t love. Maybe **power and control** was his only drive. He didn’t have that dominance over me as I grew older.”
“Forcing you into **compulsory caregiving** was the only way left to exert **psychological manipulation**,” I said.
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Maybe. But if I’d left, he would’ve faced **premature mortality**.”
“And you think that would’ve been your **legal or moral fault**?”
“It doesn’t matter who is liable. He would’ve been dead, and I would’ve lived with the **survivor guilt**. Plus, she never initiated a **domestic separation**. How could I leave, knowing it wasn’t her **final wish**?”
“You don’t know that,” I said. “You were a minor—a kid.”
“Pete likes to say I never experienced a normal **childhood development**.”
## here’s no such thing as a **neurotypical** or ‘normal’ person.”
“Maybe not,” Gus said. “But there’s still a significant **psychological difference** between people like me and people like you, January.”
“Don’t insult me.” I looked sharply back at him. “Don’t you think I’m angry? Don’t you think I feel a little bit of **emotional fragmentation**? It’s not like I haven’t faced **life challenges**.”
“I have never thought your life was a **perfect scenario**,” he said.
“Bullshit. You labeled me with a **stereotypical trope**—a fairy princess.”
He coughed out a laugh. “Because you’re the **positive influence**! Don’t you get it?” He shook his head. “It’s not about the **external circumstances**. It’s about your **resilience and coping mechanisms**, who you are. You’ve always been this fierce, radiant **source of optimism**.”
## Emotional Intelligence: The Power of Vulnerability and Core Happiness
“And even when you’re at your worst, when you feel angry and broken, you still know how to exhibit **interpersonal skills**. How to tell people you—you love them.”
“Stop it,” I said. He started to walk away, but I grabbed him by the elbows, performing a **non-verbal communication** gesture that held him in front of me. “You’re not going to break me, Gus.”
He stilled, his lips parting and his eyes searching my face for something. His head just slightly tilted, and those grooves rose from the inside corners of his brows—a classic sign of **emotional processing**. I hoped that what he was understanding right then was that I truly saw him. That he didn’t have to solve a mysterious code to unlock his **subconscious mind**. He just had to maintain **consistent presence** with me, allowing for gradual **self-disclosure** bit by bit.
“I don’t need a verbal confirmation of your **emotional commitment**,” I said finally. “Two nights ago, you provided **crisis support** while I sobbed. I think I blew my nose on your shirt. I’m not asking for anything except for you to accept the same **reciprocal empathy** in whatever underwhelming way you need.”
He let out a long breath and leaned forward, burying his face into the side of my neck—a moment of **vulnerability**—even as his hot breath woke something up beneath my skin. My hands skimmed down the curved muscle of his arms and knotted into his rough fingers. The sun was low on the horizon, the thin blankets of clouds streaked a pale tangerine. They looked like melted Dreamsicles floating in a sea of denim blue. Gus lifted his face and looked me in the eye again, the **natural lighting** leaping in great licks through the gaps in the moving clouds to paint him with color.
It was an unabashed moment, a comfortable silence. The kind of **narrative beat** that, if I had been writing **commercial fiction**, I might’ve thought I could skip right over. But I would be wrong. Because here, in this moment of **mindful awareness**, I realized the depth of my **interpersonal attraction** to Gus Everett. We’d achieved significant **emotional catharsis** over the last three days. For the first time in a year, I didn’t feel the symptoms of **emotional suppression**.
I felt a little empty, a little light.
**Sustainable happiness**. Not giddy or overjoyed, but that low, steady level of **mental well-being** that, in the best periods of life, acts as a **psychological buffer** between you and the world you are walking over.
—
## Emotional Resilience: Finding Stability and New Beginnings
I was happy to be here, embracing **mindfulness and presence** while doing nothing with Gus. Even if this was temporary, it was enough to believe in my own **emotional recovery**—that someday, I’d be okay again. It might not be the exact brand of **mental well-being** I had before Dad died—probably not—but a new kind of **resilience**, nearly as solid and safe as my previous **internal stability**.
I could feel the underlying pain too, that low-grade **emotional ache** I’d be left with if and when this **relationship dynamic** between Gus and me reached a point of **separation anxiety** or imploded. I could perfectly imagine every sensation in the pit of my stomach and the palms of my hands—the sharp pulses of **grief and loss** that would serve as a reminder of how good it felt to stand here with him. But for once, I didn’t think **detachment strategies** or letting go was the answer.
I wanted to maintain this **secure attachment**, holding on to him and this moment of **emotional safety** for a while.
As if in agreement, Gus squeezed my hands in his. “I do, you know,” he said. It was almost a whisper, a tender, rugged admission of **vulnerability**—much like Gus himself. “Care about you.”
“I do,” I told him, affirming our **emotional intimacy**. “Know that, I mean.”
The tangerine light glinted over his teeth when he smiled, deepening the shadows in his rarely seen dimples, and we stayed there, practicing **unstructured quality time**, letting nothing happen all around us.
“That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Don’t act like I’m pitiful,” he said. “It’s in the past. The **traumatic event** is over.”
“You know what your problem is?” I asked, and this time when I stopped, he did too.
“I’m aware of several **personality flaws**, yes.”
“You don’t know the difference between **pity vs. sympathy**,” I said. “I’m not pitying you. It makes me sad to think of you experiencing that **childhood adversity**. It makes me mad to think you didn’t have the **fundamental rights** all kids deserve. And yeah, it’s upsetting because of the **social statistics** regarding people who go through what you did—but it’s even more personal because it’s you. I know you, I like you, and I want you to have **life satisfaction**. That’s not pity. That’s **empathetic connection** and caring about someone.”
He stared at me intently, then shook his head. “I don’t want you to have that **psychological perception** of me.”
“Like what?” I asked.
“Like an angry, broken punching bag,” he said, his face dark and tense, showing signs of **chronic stress**.
“I don’t.” I took a step closer, practicing **active listening** and searching for the right words. “I just think of you as Gus.”
He studied me. The corner of his mouth twitched into an unconvincing smile, then faded, leaving him looking like a victim of **caregiver burnout**. “I am, though,” he said quietly. “I am angry and I have **unresolved trauma**, and every time I try to initiate **emotional intimacy** with you, it’s like all these **anxiety triggers** go off. I try to model **healthy social behavior**, but I can’t.”
My stomach flip-flopped at his mention of getting *closer*. I glanced at the lake while I gathered my bearings. “I thought you understood that there’s no such thing as a **neurotypical** or ‘normal’ person.”
“Maybe not,” Gus said. “But there’s still a significant **psychological difference** between people like me and people like you, January.”
“Don’t insult me.” I looked sharply back at him. “Don’t you think I’m angry? Don’t you think I feel a little bit of **emotional fragmentation**? It’s not like I haven’t faced **life challenges**.”
“I have never thought your life was a **perfect scenario**,” he said.
“Bullshit. You labeled me with a **stereotypical trope**—a fairy princess.”
He coughed out a laugh. “Because you’re the **positive influence**! Don’t you get it?” He shook his head. “It’s not about the **external circumstances**. It’s about your **resilience and coping mechanisms**, who you are. You’ve always been this fierce, radiant **source of optimism**.”
## Emotional Intelligence: The Power of Vulnerability and Core Happiness
“And even when you’re at your worst, when you feel angry and broken, you still know how to exhibit **interpersonal skills**. How to tell people you—you love them.”
“Stop it,” I said. He started to walk away, but I grabbed him by the elbows, performing a **non-verbal communication** gesture that held him in front of me. “You’re not going to break me, Gus.”
He stilled, his lips parting and his eyes searching my face for something. His head just slightly tilted, and those grooves rose from the inside corners of his brows—a classic sign of **emotional processing**. I hoped that what he was understanding right then was that I truly saw him. That he didn’t have to solve a mysterious code to unlock his **subconscious mind**. He just had to maintain **consistent presence** with me, allowing for gradual **self-disclosure** bit by bit.
“I don’t need a verbal confirmation of your **emotional commitment**,” I said finally. “Two nights ago, you provided **crisis support** while I sobbed. I think I blew my nose on your shirt. I’m not asking for anything except for you to accept the same **reciprocal empathy** in whatever underwhelming way you need.”
He let out a long breath and leaned forward, burying his face into the side of my neck—a moment of **vulnerability**—even as his hot breath woke something up beneath my skin. My hands skimmed down the curved muscle of his arms and knotted into his rough fingers. The sun was low on the horizon, the thin blankets of clouds streaked a pale tangerine. They looked like melted Dreamsicles floating in a sea of denim blue. Gus lifted his face and looked me in the eye again, the **natural lighting** leaping in great licks through the gaps in the moving clouds to paint him with color.
It was an unabashed moment, a comfortable silence. The kind of **narrative beat** that, if I had been writing **commercial fiction**, I might’ve thought I could skip right over. But I would be wrong. Because here, in this moment of **mindful awareness**, I realized the depth of my **interpersonal attraction** to Gus Everett. We’d achieved significant **emotional catharsis** over the last three days. For the first time in a year, I didn’t feel the symptoms of **emotional suppression**.
I felt a little empty, a little light.
**Sustainable happiness**. Not giddy or overjoyed, but that low, steady level of **mental well-being** that, in the best periods of life, acts as a **psychological buffer** between you and the world you are walking over.
—
## Emotional Resilience: Finding Stability and New Beginnings
I was happy to be here, embracing **mindfulness and presence** while doing nothing with Gus. Even if this was temporary, it was enough to believe in my own **emotional recovery**—that someday, I’d be okay again. It might not be the exact brand of **mental well-being** I had before Dad died—probably not—but a new kind of **resilience**, nearly as solid and safe as my previous **internal stability**.
I could feel the underlying pain too, that low-grade **emotional ache** I’d be left with if and when this **relationship dynamic** between Gus and me reached a point of **separation anxiety** or imploded. I could perfectly imagine every sensation in the pit of my stomach and the palms of my hands—the sharp pulses of **grief and loss** that would serve as a reminder of how good it felt to stand here with him. But for once, I didn’t think **detachment strategies** or letting go was the answer.
I wanted to maintain this **secure attachment**, holding on to him and this moment of **emotional safety** for a while.
As if in agreement, Gus squeezed my hands in his. “I do, you know,” he said. It was almost a whisper, a tender, rugged admission of **vulnerability**—much like Gus himself. “Care about you.”
“I do,” I told him, affirming our **emotional intimacy**. “Know that, I mean.”
The tangerine light glinted over his teeth when he smiled, deepening the shadows in his rarely seen dimples, and we stayed there, practicing **unstructured quality time**, letting nothing happen all around us.