Desire and the Decision to Act: The Right to an Interval

Epigraph

“suspend any particular desire”

John Locke, An Essay Concerning Humane Understanding, Book II, Chapter XXI, §51. A short fragment from the original text; concerning the ability to examine a desire before acting.

What This Article Is About

The draft is typed, the cursor pulses directly over the "Send" button, and a finger hovers over the keyboard as if poised above a red nuclear launch button. The email turned out venomous, meticulously argued, and, as it seems to the author at this very second, utterly deserved by the recipient. In moments like these, the human brain adores a cheap sleight of hand: if a raging urge to speak one's mind boils inside, sending these exact forty lines right now feels like the only possible verdict of the universe. As if the mere fact of an emotional flare-up had automatically gotten a notary to rubber-stamp a power of attorney for an immediate email blast.

Meanwhile, reality is set up a bit more intricately: one can sincerely desire to voice a grievance, yet choose another format for it; one can dream of quitting right in the middle of a Tuesday, yet first clarify the terms of the severance package; one can feel colossal physical attraction without co-signing a joint mortgage and swearing eternal fidelity on the spot.

This article proposes examining the gap between an impulse and the "Launch" button. This interval does not have to be solemn, silent, or packed with quotes from ancient Stoics. Sometimes it is just a deep breath, sometimes the chance to close the laptop until morning if conditions allow, and sometimes a deliberate refusal to hammer out a reply in two seconds flat. Inside this pause, the original desire may very well survive intact, while the chosen action changes radically. Or, conversely, after five minutes of sober examination, one might hit the button with even greater conviction.

We will sort four distinct things onto separate shelves: desire, intention, accessible opportunity, and the action itself. Conflating them is convenient for melodrama, but harmful for living. Drawing such distinctions may help in examining one's own position, even if it will never turn decision-making into a flawless assembly line. The scenarios below are hypothetical; the reflective questions are proposed by the editorial team and do not constitute a validated clinical technique.

I. A Desire Does Not Yet Announce What Needs to Be Done

Late in the evening, Olga scrolls through her feed, lands on vivid photos of someone else's mountain getaway, and catches herself sighing: "I want to get away." In these few words, there are no dates, no packed suitcase, and no purchased ticket. What lurks beneath them? A pull toward those specific snow-capped peaks? A dream of sleeping in without pinging notifications? Or an ordinary weariness of a routine that demands putting on a business suit every morning? Olga herself might not fully know the answer, but that does not render her impulse fake. It is simply raw and carries no ready-made itinerary.

Translating a vague urge into a marching order right away can make a mess. A hastily bought plane ticket will dutifully transport a physical body into another time zone, but a vacation does not inherently ban the work chat—notifications from colleagues fly across borders just fine. Turning off the phone removes incoming pings, but does not automatically transform staring at four walls into a thrilling adventure. Different actions address entirely different needs. Hence, it pays to ask oneself an almost indecently pedestrian question: what specifically caught my eye in that picture, and what exactly do I expect to fix in my daily grind?

People frequently commit the mirror-image blunder here: subjecting the desire to a third-degree interrogation. The moment an interest flickers, the internal prosecutor demands documentation: is this urge sufficiently mature, productive, spiritual, and socially approved? Yet human desire is under no obligation to secure a visa from a strict committee merely to cross the threshold of awareness. One can calmly acknowledge its presence: "Yes, I want this." Without swearing an oath to execute it instantly, and without the chore of defending a doctoral dissertation justifying why. Such acknowledgment leaves room to maneuver.

Olga could jot down three entirely different continuations: I want to see these mountains; I want three days of staring at a blank wall without phone calls; I want to switch jobs, though I don't know to what just yet. This is not a multiple-choice quiz with a single correct option—all three could be true at once. Writing them down merely brings the differences into view. Then, instead of frantically booking a room, she can check her remaining leave days, assess the project load, or defer the trip until spring. The initial stirring of desire remains part of her experience, while the plan of action begins to respect the boundaries of reality.

Crucially: do not confuse a desire felt today with old entries in your journal or resume. Dreaming of a relocation or a specific guitar ten years ago does not obligate you to want it now. Honoring a past choice does not require reenacting it verbatim. Otherwise, your past biography turns into a stern warden barking orders at your present self, regardless of how circumstances have shifted.

II. A Pause Does Not Require Proving the Desire Is Bad

In the heat of a barbed exchange, an itch flares up to immediately skewer the other person with a sarcastic comeback. Yet any hesitation is often framed as a humiliating surrender: if you don't fire back within five seconds, you have supposedly swallowed the insult and conceded defeat. For some reason, reaction speed gets elevated to a badge of personal honor. One gets trapped in a false dilemma: either blurt out something reckless on impulse or feel spineless. Even though the exchange could be picked up tomorrow, shifted to writing, or revisited with colder facts. An interval is needed to choose the caliber and shape of the reply, not to abandon one's position.

In Book II, Chapter XXI, sections 48 and 51, John Locke examines this capacity of the mind to suspend action in favor of a fair examination, carefully noting that this holds in "most cases"—not in every single instance without exception. This is a seventeenth-century historical philosophical stance, not proof of boundless human self-mastery or a guarantee of total control. Our question remains far more modest: did the split-second impulse have time to turn into a decision one is willing to own in clear consciousness?

Consider a hypothetical scene: a colleague on an open team call snidely belittles Anton's two weeks of work. Anton does not need to meditate on the spot or talk himself into believing his anger is an illusion or unconstructive. It is perfectly fine to register: "I am furious, I was treated disrespectfully, and I intend to set a boundary." But what comes next is the choice of instrument. An unhinged brawl on the live call, an icy clarification of protocol in front of everyone, or a firm one-on-one meeting afterward produce wildly diverging outcomes. Choosing not to yell instantly does not erase the anger, nor does it dissolve the boundary Anton aims to protect.

It is useful to distinguish a chosen pause from an internal ban on feeling or forced silence; the latter does not prove cowardice. Delaying action can preserve a genuine opening to return to the topic, provided such an option actually exists. An internal ban demands shutting up entirely, swallowing the grievance, and pretending nothing happened. From the outside, both look identical—a person simply remains quiet. But their underlying terms are opposites. If Anton scheduled a conversation for the morning and knows his points, his pause carries forward momentum. If he is forced to nod along to an erratic boss just to avoid losing his paycheck, calling that a "free philosophical pause" would be pure hypocrisy. The reality of a pause is defined not by the stopwatch, but by whether the next move is genuinely open.

III. An Intention Needs a More Specific Verb

The phrase "I want change" sounds poetic, mysterious, and can sit as a social media bio for years. It signals genuine discontent, but remains stubbornly silent on what physical action the person actually intends to take. An intention only gains traction when it is pinned down by boring parameters: a concrete verb, a definite object, a context, and a timeframe. For instance: "speak with the lead this Thursday about rebalancing tasks," "turn down one unpaid project," "review the syllabus of a training course by Saturday." These formulations do not guarantee triumph, but they translate vague angst into an identifiable action whose demands can be evaluated.

In Icek Ajzen's 2020 theoretical clarification (sections 1.1–1.2 of the FAQ on the Theory of Planned Behavior), behavior in the model is defined through the strict alignment of action, target, context, and time, while the transition from intention to actual performance hinges on actual behavioral control. This is a description of a theoretical model, not a clinical prescription or a guarantee of results. In daily life, deficits in money, time, health, or active opposition from others can brick up even the best-laid plans. Ajzen's work does not imply that raw desire equals intention, or that jotting down a neat to-do item magically dissolves external obstacles.

Suppose Sergey resolves to leave an exhausting job. He craves a different daily routine, intends to send out resumes, and is capable of updating his profile today. But landing an offer from a great company does not depend solely on the strength of his intention. Conflating these layers leads the brain to treat an absence of immediate offers as personal inadequacy and a lack of drive. Untangling them allows for a far more grounded self-check: did I take my own step? Is the resume refreshed? Is the market currently hiring people with my background? What sits within my sphere of control, and what remains in the hands of employers?

At times, picking a precise verb exposes something else: the definitive action has not even been selected yet. That, too, is a completely normal outcome of taking a beat. Sergey might realize that he does not actually want to resign with a dramatic flourish just yet, but merely wants to scout the market and gauge salary ranges. His intention is then focused on gathering intel, not staging a mutiny. A modest step is entirely adequate for the question at hand. The main thing is to avoid self-delusion and mistaking the warmup for finishing the marathon: browsing job boards from the couch is not changing careers, and a draft email is not an executed conversation.

IV. An Interval Can Make Room for Multiple Desires

On a Friday night, an invitation arrives for a noisy party. On one hand, seeing friends and sharing drinks sounds great; on the other, your bones ache with exhaustion, and the sofa looks like the pinnacle of human civilization. If one insists on rigid certainty—demanding to pinpoint the single "true" desire—the second impulse will inevitably be vilified: either by branding oneself an antisocial slacker or by resenting friends for being pushy. Yet both impulses are entirely legitimate. Craving social connection does not cancel physical fatigue. An interval exists precisely to avoid passing a sweeping verdict on your entire character based on which side of the scale happens to tip tonight.

Such dilemmas rarely contain high Shakespearean tragedy. Often, tweaking the parameters is enough: arranging to arrive an hour later, or stating upfront that you will head home at ten. One person opts for a brief drop-in; another stays home with a book. Neither choice forever cements who you are—a party animal or a reclusive hermit. The decision applies to a specific evening, under a specific battery level, and carries a specific price tag.

Some desires simply cannot be shoehorned into a single act, no matter how hard you try. One cannot buy an expensive luxury item and simultaneously preserve the exact same cash reserve; one cannot pull an intense evening shift at work and take a relaxed stroll with family at the same time; one cannot ask a blunt question and guarantee protection against an unpleasant answer. In these situations, an interval will not conjure a magical compromise where the sheep stay full and the wolves go vegan. It can help examine the price of the options, but does not guarantee that the loss becomes clear. Choosing one option deliberately shuts the door on another. And one has every right to feel a twinge of regret over the forfeited path, without declaring the decision flawed simply because reality refused to let you have it all.

It helps to ask: what price am I willing to pay right now, and what price am I unready to pay or still don't fully grasp? That cost might be financial, logistical, or emotional. If you passed on a watch to save money, it doesn't mean you suddenly stopped liking it—the desire is still valid, but practicality won the day. If you feel drained after a great gathering, it does not mean your initial agreement to go was a lie. An interval may make room to choose an action among competing impulses. It does not promise unanimous internal peace or blissful serenity once the choice is made.

Furthermore, you are under no obligation to deliver a public progress report on every fleeting doubt. Personal hesitations can be processed privately, without convening an emergency family summit for every hesitation. Candor is fine, but it is not an obligatory toll for the right to decide. If your choice concerns only your personal evening and breaks no commitments, your own internal answer is plenty. Opening the hood makes sense at one's own discretion; when modifying a mutual arrangement, only the specifics essential to that agreement require sharing.

V. The Other Party Is Not Obligated to Wait Indefinitely

You can retreat into your own shell and wait for a decision to ripen like an avocado with a very complicated personality. But a pause doesn't give you the remote control for someone else's calendar. Imagine a friend preparing to book accommodation for a shared trip, a colleague awaiting your answer about a joint presentation, and a partner asking whether you're ready to share a home. If the shared plan actually depends on your answer, waiting may consume their time or money: the hotel needn't put its rates into spiritual suspended animation, and working hours don't reproduce in response to your “still thinking.” You don't need to convene a family council for every hesitation or display all your emotional innards. What you need is an external agreement: when will you answer, and what can the other person do if they need to act sooner? A clash of deadlines may leave this particular plan proceeding without you; neither agreement nor the end of civilization is an inevitable result. Inside, you can examine your doubts, but nobody granted you an indefinite lease on someone else's time for a deep-freeze labelled “decision still ripening.”

Setting an expectation does not require baring your soul. Naming a concrete deadline is enough: "I need to think this over until tomorrow evening; if you need to lock down reservations right now, go ahead without me, I completely understand." Such an answer honestly acknowledges your uncertainty while respecting the other person's logistics. If their timeline cannot accommodate your pace, agreement may not be reached; what follows depends on the known conditions. That is not a punitive measure for moving slowly, but an ordinary mismatch of schedules: the plan required clarity sooner than you were ready to provide it.

There is a world of difference between courteously asking for time and selfishly attempting to turn someone else's life into a free deep-freeze for their time. In the latter case, a person clings to all the enticing options while offering the other person an open-ended holding pattern on a short leash. Demanding that an offer remain frozen indefinitely can turn a pause into an entitlement subsidized by another's limbo. To catch this in oneself, it helps to ask: who is footing the bill for my silence right now? What answer is objectively needed for things to move? What happens when the deadline arrives? These are basics of relational hygiene.

If the agreed deadline hits and clarity remains elusive, bring a new fact to the table rather than serving another vague "I'll decide soon." Missing information? Specify what is missing. Realizing agreement won't happen? A concrete refusal does not require promising future consent you cannot give. Your private reasons can stay private. Silence without a clear prior agreement does not confirm consent. It neither reveals another's motives nor proves refusal; once the deadline passes, the other person may proceed without your involvement under the known conditions.

VI. Strong Desire Is Not Consent from the Other Person

Intense emotional or physical attraction is tricky: internally, it can feel like a blank check authorizing action. It is easy to assume that if a fire blazes inside with such force, the other person must surely understand, share it, and welcome the advance. Yet your desire is strictly a fact of your own physiology and psychology; another person's participation requires their separate, voluntary, and sufficiently clear consent to that specific involvement; that consent can change and is not bound to a single mandatory verbal script. Neither past intimacy, nor mutual sparks, nor a conversation that dragged on past midnight generate consent in the present moment. An interval here provides a space for a direct question and the readiness to accept a refusal with dignity.

Take a classic scene: after a warm date, the urge strikes at three in the morning to text an invite to "come over." One can register the desire, assess the lateness of the hour, send a neutral note, and leave the other person free not to reply. If no answer comes, that is no cue to hallucinate bashfulness, look for secret signals, or demand explanations. The feeling does not become shameful or tainted just because a reply has not arrived or the other person does not share it. It remains your experience, while the other person's autonomy stays intact. Romantic comedies love to frame persistent boundary-pushing as "true passion," but in real life, it is simply disregard.

Consent always applies to a specific action. Enjoying a coffee chat does not mean agreeing to go to a hotel; agreeing to dinner is not a subscription to an ongoing romance. As conditions shift, what was agreed upon yesterday may require fresh calibration today. A pause allows one to pull back and check: am I inventing a convenient answer on the other person's behalf? Am I trying to read minds and fish for "hidden hints" while ignoring what is plainly said out loud?

At times, an entirely valid option is to notice one's attraction, yet choose to do nothing and refrain from laying it on the other person. That does not make the feeling defective. Other times, you put the question out there, receive a polite no, and carry on with your disappointment. There is no guaranteed cinematic happy ending where everyone walks away thrilled. Instead, there is adult responsibility: my desire and my actions belong to me, but the other person's response lies entirely outside my jurisdiction. During an interval, this boundary can be examined; waiting alone does not guarantee that it will be respected.

VII. The Opportunity to Stop Is Unevenly Distributed

The glossy magazine advice to "just take a pause whenever things get tricky" sounds wonderful when read from a plush armchair. In practice, the luxury of stopping is distributed quite unfairly. If an employer demands a signature within thirty seconds in their office, if a deadline is on fire, or if a person lacks a financial cushion or a physically safe environment, demanding relaxed contemplation is absurd. Autonomy cannot be measured purely by the stopwatch between stimulus and response while ignoring survival pressures.

A marketer insists the "flash discount expires in five minutes." A supervisor leans on an employee in front of the whole team, pushing them to take an extra weekend shift. A manipulative partner issues an ultimatum: "If you cared, you'd answer this second." In these hypothetical setups, urgency restricts the space to deliberate; the other person's actual intentions are not always obvious. Sometimes time can be clawed back: asking for terms in writing, refusing an artificial countdown, or rescheduling. But sometimes the cost of pausing is too steep—risking immediate job loss or tangible danger. In those moments, the least one can do is avoid self-flagellation and acknowledge plainly: my actions right now are tightly constrained by circumstances, not by a "defect of character."

When the clock is ticking down and a reply must happen right away, the interval might shrink to a single detail. One might negotiate just one condition, agree to a temporary compromise, or mark a boundary: "I can take on only this part of the task, and only through Friday." This is no foolproof shield—demands may continue. Yet such a boundary can help stake out terms, even though it guarantees neither safety nor clarity: a forced, split-second concession does not equal consent to all future demands. Conceding a single step under pressure does not commit you to running the entire marathon.

Once the dust settles, the situation can be revisited with a clear head. How much time was there in reality? What facts were withheld? What buffers could be set up for a similar scenario later? This is not about self-blame, but an honest audit of resources. Perhaps formal agreements, legal guidance, or team support can help next time. Or perhaps one simply has to accept: the vise was tight. Lacking the room for a textbook pause in a crisis is not a personal failure or proof of weakness.

At the level of process design, such buffers can be discussed in advance. A family might agree not to purchase non-refundable tickets without cross-checking calendars, while a workplace team might agree not to force decisions on complex matters during live calls, collecting written feedback by end of day instead. This is straightforward operational common sense. The goal is to build room for reflection into the process itself, rather than forcing someone to wage an uphill battle every time they need a moment to think.

VIII. Endless Deliberation Also Carries Consequences

An interval is meant to serve a decision, but it has a sneaky habit of expanding into an endless internal procurement tender for an online course, desperately trying to eliminate the very last shred of risk. A person spends weeks comparing twenty similar training programs, fine-tunes every syllable of an ordinary message, endlessly polishes phrasing, and pores over the fine print. Each fresh round of analysis whispers a comforting lie: "Just a little more research, and we will wipe out every possibility of failure." As long as the button remains unpressed, one preserves the cozy illusion of an unblemished future where no errors have been made. But the clock keeps ticking: discounts lapse, job openings vanish, and colleagues grow weary of waiting. Getting stuck at the starting line changes the game on its own, and whether the consequences are good or bad depends on the specific setup.

It pays to flip on your radar and ask: what can a tenth round of deliberation actually deliver? Am I truly hunting down a missing, concrete fact that will alter my choice? Or am I simply demanding airtight guarantees that no real-world situation can provide? This is no call to leap blindly into the dark. But it helps spot the moment when new data has stopped appearing, while the craving for a total guarantee lingers. Real life does not come packaged with a manufacturer's warranty.

Take a hypothetical Irina, who has spent three months evaluating an evening course. The schedule is clear, the price is known, the curriculum is laid out, and the refund policy has been read. Yet Irina hovers over the payment button: "What if the cohort is toxic? What if I can't keep up? What if I regret it after a month?" These questions cannot be resolved theoretically while sitting at home over tea. If a trial lesson is available on reasonable terms, Irina might consider that, decline the course entirely, or enroll while accepting a calculated financial risk. The purpose of an interval here is not to gaze into a crystal ball, but to settle an honest question: what specific level of inevitable uncertainty am I prepared to live with?

Once a choice is made, let it operate within its agreed parameters. There is no need to tear down your entire worldview the moment the first minor inconvenience strikes. Of course, if the fundamentals drastically shift—the price rises, hours get moved, the scope changes—the decision can and should be reopened. But it is essential to distinguish genuinely new developments from merely re-litigating the same old doubts without fresh facts. A decision can fit the known circumstances today and still be revised tomorrow; actual commitments and consequences require separate review.

If writing works for you, note down a single line of baseline parameters on a notepad: "I chose this option under these specific conditions; I consciously accepted this known risk; this other question remains open." This is not an entry for a therapy journal, but a dry log. A month later, it can help compare expectations against the known terms, though it guarantees no perfect memory. The contract with reality never promised universal applause or flawless success; whether you had tacked those expectations on yourself is another question.

IX. Acting After a Pause Is Also a Form of Freedom

Popular self-help literature harbors a curious bias: calm hesitation, endless introspection, and avoiding decisive moves are somehow treated as the pinnacle of emotional maturity. As a result, a well-read person learns to dissect every impulse down to the atom, but becomes squeamish about taking action. A swift, firm reply starts feeling "insufficiently mindful," unabashed enthusiasm feels "infantile," and a clean refusal seems "abrasive." Yet an interval is under no obligation to sterilize or dampen every living feeling. Its job might be the exact opposite: to confirm that yes, I do want this conversation, I am glad to take on this work, or I am definitively turning down this toxic proposition. Deliberating a situation does not require abandoning decisiveness; whether an action is appropriate depends on its terms and other people's boundaries.

The key is that the chosen step matches the current context. If your goal is to push back against disrespect in a specific meeting, you do not need to settle the entire five-year history of the relationship or drag up ancient grievances. If you decide to sample a new hobby, you do not need to swear lifelong devotion to it on day one. A person has every right to act vigorously while leaving future questions open. Saying "yes" to one step today should never slide into an unstated agreement to an ongoing commitment that nobody actually discussed.

Once you finally hit the button and the email flies out, you might still feel a whole swirl of reactions: relief, slight nervousness, or lingering frustration. That is a completely normal human process that doesn't need to be manicured into glossy, absolute serenity. An action does not have to obliterate every mixed feeling to be valid. The step itself can be reviewed concretely: what was actually stated? Were anyone's boundaries crossed? What consequences followed, and what now requires clear-headed attention?

Returning to that email where a finger hovered so dramatically over the send button. It might remain a draft, turn into a dry two-line inquiry, or get dispatched almost unchanged. None of these outcomes is an absolute ideal. In a favorable scenario, the pause made room to examine the form of the reply: the person clarified why they are writing, what they are ready to state, and what responses they cannot demand. Such an outcome is never guaranteed. Real freedom sometimes sits in the button left unclicked. And sometimes—in the button pressed with a steady hand after a brief, completely honest look at the facts.

What This Means in Practice

If you want to try this out, pick a modest, routine, non-urgent situation within accessible conditions where a fork in the road is still ahead: a pending message, an invitation to an awkward dinner, buying an extra gadget, or an unexpected task being handed to you. Do not turn this into a mindfulness test. First, name the desire as it is, without moralizing or pretending to be above it. Next, write down the specific action you are currently considering. If those two statements look identical, take a file to them: pin down the verb, attach a timeframe, and map the boundaries of the commitment. An inner urge can feel as boundless as an ocean, but an action always operates within the narrow constraints of the physical world.

Figure out what actual information you need to move forward. If one crucial detail is missing, go and ask for it. If the decision impacts someone else, state a realistic deadline and openly let them proceed without you if their timeline cannot wait. You can skip this practice entirely, stop midway, send nothing, and keep your notes private; it must never delay necessary help or urgent action. Separately, check the conditions: do you actually have physical time to deliberate, or is someone manufacturing artificial urgency? Don't shoulder blame for the entire universe when a huge chunk of the outcome hinges on other people's whims, market turbulence, or a plain lack of resources.

After reviewing the situation, you can choose an accessible, modest, reversible step, a refusal, an agreed extension, or choose not to act for now. Clearer boundaries for an action may be the outcome, but coming away without complete clarity or leaving the question open is entirely permissible—blissful, saintly peace is not part of the package either. If you turned something down and the desire still hums in the background, that is normal; it doesn't make the refusal a sham. If you took a step, it doesn't mean you unlocked the secrets of existence. You simply matched a concrete action to what you are prepared to handle right now, leaving the rest of the fog alone.

If taking a step lands you flat on your face, don't rush to dump ashes on your head and declare yourself an irredeemable failure. Break the error down into parts: did you misread the timeline? Overestimate your capacity? Cross someone's boundary? One can consider a targeted repair without writing off an entire character over a single mistake. If necessary, apologize, renegotiate the deadline, or exit the project. Pausing before jumping doesn't make you bruise-proof; it merely buys a couple of seconds to look around before gravity takes over.

Key Quote

“a fair examination”

John Locke, An Essay Concerning Humane Understanding, II, XXI, §48. Short fragment from the original text. Here it serves as an invitation to examine the terms of a decision, not as an order for flawless self-control.

Connections Between Traditions

Source	Subject	Point of Comparison	Boundary
Locke, II, XXI	Deliberation before action	Desire and chosen action	Historical philosophical position
Ajzen, 2020, 1.1–1.2	Concrete intention and control	Decision and accessible opportunity	Theoretical behavioral model
United Wisdom Editors	Hypothetical everyday scenes	Pause and agreement	Untested technique

This comparison highlights differences in approaches. It does not establish a unified doctrine, cross-cultural consensus, or the clinical efficacy of taking a pause.

Primary Sources

John Locke. An Essay Concerning Humane Understanding, Volume I, Book II, Chapter XXI, §§47–51. Project Gutenberg, text, digital edition details #10615. Selected paragraphs related to the quotes and argument, along with publication details, were examined; not the entire book. The catalog indicates a basis in the second edition with the title date MDCXC. This is not an assertion of a physical first edition. Public domain in the USA; other jurisdictions have not been verified.
Icek Ajzen. “The theory of planned behavior: Frequently asked questions.” Human Behavior and Emerging Technologies 2 (2020), 314–324. Author's copy, PDF, DOI. The opening pages and sections 1.1–1.2 were examined; not the entire article or cited studies. An authorial theoretical clarification. Reuse license not confirmed: UNKNOWN; short independent summary, without direct quotations.

About the Authors

Andrey Zarinsh — author and founder of the United Wisdom project. Explores themes of inner transformation, the unity of traditions, intercultural dialogue, and modern spiritual discipline. Instagram: @andrey.zarinsh.

Maria Evilkut — co-author of United Wisdom. Alongside research work, she strives to test these ideas in practice and observe how principles of unity and mutual understanding function in real life between people and cultures. Instagram: @ilkutki.