A man who has not passed through the inferno of his passions has

Host: The night was carved from embers and shadows. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed — long, aching, lonely — before dissolving into the vast silence of the city’s sleeping heart.

Inside an old warehouse turned art studio, half of the lights had burned out. The remaining ones flickered uncertainly, casting ghosts across the walls streaked with dried paint and memory.

Jack stood before a massive canvas, his shirt sleeves rolled up, his hands covered in smudges of charcoal and red pigment. His breathing was ragged — not from work, but from the remnants of an argument that had burned through him hours ago.

Jeeny stood behind him, wrapped in a thin scarf, watching him like one might watch a man standing too close to the edge.

On the paint-stained table beside her lay a folded piece of paper, flecked with color, its text half-faded but legible under the flickering light:
"A man who has not passed through the inferno of his passions has never overcome them." — Carl Jung.

Host: The words seemed to hum faintly in the air, as if the very walls were whispering them back — over and over, like an old confession.

Jeeny: (softly) “You’re painting again when you should be sleeping.”

Jack: (without turning) “I can’t sleep. Every time I close my eyes, I see it.”

Jeeny: “See what?”

Jack: “Everything I could’ve been… if I’d just stayed calm.”

Host: His voice cracked on that last word. The brush in his hand trembled, leaving a streak of violent red across the canvas, like a wound that refused to close.

Jeeny stepped closer, her shoes echoing faintly on the concrete.

Jeeny: “You think calm is the cure for what’s burning inside you?”

Jack: “It’s better than this.” (gestures to the painting) “Better than drowning in my own fire.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But you can’t heal what you refuse to face. Jung was right — you can’t overcome your passions by avoiding them. You have to walk through their flames.”

Host: Jack turned, his gray eyes flaring in the half-light. The anger that lived beneath his skin stirred — not violent now, but raw, human.

Jack: “You make it sound poetic. But you’ve never stood where I have — when the passion stops being creation and turns into destruction. When everything you love starts choking you.”

Jeeny: “You think I haven’t? You think I’ve never drowned in my own heart? Jack… we all have an inferno. Some of us just hide it better.”

Host: The flickering light threw their shadows against the wall — two figures locked in silent collision.

Jack: “So what, you’re saying I should just embrace it? Let it burn me alive?”

Jeeny: “No. I’m saying let it burn through you. There’s a difference.”

Jack: (bitterly) “Easy to say when you’re not the one standing in the fire.”

Jeeny: “Jack, you are the fire.”

Host: The words hit him like cold steel. He froze, staring at her, the line between fury and revelation flickering across his face.

Jack: “You don’t know what it’s like — when your passions consume everything. I’ve lost people because of it. I’ve destroyed things I loved.”

Jeeny: “So has everyone who’s ever felt deeply. Van Gogh, Beethoven, even Jung himself — they all went through the inferno. It’s not about escaping it, Jack. It’s about surviving it long enough to understand what it’s trying to teach you.”

Host: The rain began outside — slow at first, then steadier, drumming against the corrugated roof. The sound mingled with the rhythm of their breathing, as if the world itself had decided to listen.

Jack dropped his brush, its wooden handle clattering to the floor. His hands trembled, streaked with red, black, and blue — the colors of both art and war.

Jack: “I thought I was creating. But maybe I was just trying to exorcise myself.”

Jeeny: “And that’s what creation really is, Jack — an exorcism. The artist doesn’t paint to show the world what he sees. He paints to survive what he feels.”

Host: She took a slow step forward, the faint scent of turpentine mixing with the rain and the electric hum of truth in the air.

Jeeny: “Jung said that without confronting the darkness within us, we become slaves to it. You can’t transcend what you’ve never met face to face.”

Jack: (quietly) “And what if the face you meet isn’t one you can forgive?”

Jeeny: “Then you paint it until you do.”

Host: He stared at