A person is born with feelings of envy and hate. If he gives way

Host: The rain had been falling since dawn—slow, steady, and relentless, like a quiet confession the city didn’t want to make. Neon signs blurred in the puddles outside, their colors bleeding into one another—red, blue, white—the moral shades of a world that had forgotten how to stay pure.

Jack sat in a dim bar, the kind that felt like an afterthought—cracked stools, cheap whiskey, music low and tired. He leaned forward, elbows on the counter, a man carved from both logic and loneliness. Jeeny sat across from him, the faint glow of the streetlight catching in her dark hair. Her eyes, as always, were the color of empathy and trouble.

The news was on the old TV in the corner—another report of violence, another face turned into a headline. Outside, a siren wailed, fading into the night.

Jeeny: “You know, Xun Kuang once said something that feels truer every year: ‘A person is born with feelings of envy and hate. If he gives way to them, they will lead him to violence and crime, and any sense of loyalty and good faith will be abandoned.’”

Jack: “Xun Kuang… the pessimist of the Confucian world. Believed that human nature was evil until it was corrected. Sounds about right.”

Jeeny: “You agree with him?”

Jack: “Completely. People talk about compassion like it’s natural—it’s not. It’s a learned behavior. Scratch the surface of civilization, and you’ll find the animal still breathing underneath.”

Jeeny: “That’s too cynical, even for you.”

Jack: “It’s not cynicism, Jeeny. It’s biology. Envy, greed, hatred—those are instinct. You don’t teach a man to crave power. You teach him not to use it.”

Host: The bartender passed by, silent, refilling Jack’s glass without being asked. The light from the neon sign outside flickered, painting Jack’s face in alternating red and shadow—the colors of temptation and control.

Jeeny: “You think that’s all we are? Hungry ghosts wearing polite smiles?”

Jack: “Aren’t we? Look around. Politics. War. Social media. Even love. Everything’s an economy of ego. People want, they take, they justify. That’s the world Xun Kuang saw twenty-three hundred years ago—and it hasn’t changed.”

Jeeny: “You’re forgetting something. He didn’t just describe evil; he prescribed discipline. He said that goodness isn’t natural—but it’s possible. Through ritual. Through reflection. Through the will to be more than what we are.”

Jack: “Discipline? You mean obedience. The world doesn’t need more rituals—it needs truth.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Truth without restraint becomes chaos. Look at what envy and hate do when they’re left unguarded. They eat the heart first, then the world.”

Jack: “And what’s your solution? Kindness? Love conquers all?”

Jeeny: “No. Choice. The conscious choice to rise above the impulses that rot us. That’s what makes us human—not the absence of darkness, but the ability to hold it without becoming it.”

Host: Her words hung in the air, like the faint smoke from the cigarette in Jack’s hand. The rain outside had grown heavier, hammering against the windows like a warning. Somewhere in the distance, a gunshot echoed.

Jack didn’t flinch. He just exhaled, slowly, like a man who’d already heard too many echoes.

Jack: “You talk like people can be redeemed. But I’ve seen what envy turns into when it grows teeth. I’ve seen loyalty traded for ego, kindness twisted into manipulation. You don’t cure envy, Jeeny—you bury it until it digs its way out again.”

Jeeny: “Then why do you still care?”

Jack: “What?”

Jeeny: “If you truly believed humanity was hopeless, you wouldn’t be angry about it. You’d be indifferent. But you’re not. You’re furious. That means you still believe there’s something left to save.”

Jack: “Don’t psychoanalyze me.”

Jeeny: “I’m not. I’m reminding you that cynicism is just disappointed idealism wearing armor.”

Host: The music in the bar shifted—a slow piano melody, something old and melancholic. The light outside softened, the storm now a steady drizzle, as if the city had stopped shouting and started to weep.

Jeeny: “You remember Cain and Abel?”

Jack: “Of course. The first murder. The birth of envy.”

Jeeny: “No—the birth of choice. Cain wasn’t doomed by his feelings, Jack. He was doomed by his surrender to them. That’s the lesson. We’re all born with envy and hate—but morality is built in the moments we say no.”

Jack: “And yet the world’s covered in the graves of people who didn’t.”

Jeeny: “And in the acts of those who did. Gandhi. Mandela. The man who forgives his brother. The mother who still loves her addict son. Goodness doesn’t make headlines because it doesn’t scream.”

Jack: “It also doesn’t last. Evil’s louder because it’s easier. It gives instant satisfaction. Goodness is a long, quiet labor—it requires faith, and most people are too tired to keep believing.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe we’re not meant to win. Maybe we’re meant to keep trying.”

Host: The camera would have moved closer now—Jeeny’s eyes glimmering in the half-light, Jack’s expression cracking, the faintest trace of sorrow emerging from behind the mask of logic. The bar had grown quiet, save for the sound of the rain, tapping like a pulse.

Jack: “When I was a kid,” he said softly, “my father told me people were like knives. You keep them sharp, they cut you. Leave them dull, they rust. I think he was right. Maybe Xun Kuang was too. You can’t erase envy or hate—you can only contain them, manage the blade.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But that’s not a reason to give up polishing it. Every day we try to keep it from turning on us—that’s the work.”

Jack: “And when it does?”

Jeeny: “Then we forgive ourselves and start again. That’s the other half of being human.”

Jack: “You really think forgiveness is enough?”

Jeeny: “No. But it’s the only antidote to envy I’ve found.”

Host: A neon reflection from the window landed across their faces—the color of blood and dawn mixed together. For a moment, they looked like two sides of the same truth: logic and compassion, locked in perpetual argument, yet unable to exist without the other.

Jack: “So maybe we’re both right. Maybe we’re born monsters. But maybe, through effort, we learn to walk upright.”

Jeeny: “Yes. We are born with envy, hate, and hunger—but also with the capacity for empathy, discipline, and grace. What we feed wins.”

Jack: “And yet, envy always feels stronger.”

Jeeny: “Because it’s easier. Goodness takes strength. Hate just takes surrender.”

Host: The rain finally stopped, leaving behind the hiss of the city’s breath—wet pavement, distant cars, life resuming. The bartender turned off the TV, and the room fell into a soft, almost sacred silence.

Jack looked at Jeeny, his voice low, almost a whisper.

Jack: “Do you think we can ever really change?”

Jeeny: “Not all at once. But one choice at a time, yes. Every act of restraint, every time we choose decency over desire—that’s evolution.”

Jack: “And when we fail?”

Jeeny: “Then we remember that failure doesn’t erase the effort. It just reminds us we’re still learning how to be human.”

Host: The camera would have pulled back then—through the window, out into the wet street, where the light from the bar sign cast two reflections on the puddled ground: one dark, one pale. The city gleamed, wounded yet alive, still pulsing with the fragile rhythm of its people.

Because Xun Kuang was right—
we are born with envy and hate.

But Jeeny was right too—
we are not bound to them.

And somewhere in the soft hum of the rain,
in a bar where two souls wrestled with the oldest truth of all,
humanity—flawed, restless, and hopeful—
kept learning,
one choice at a time,
how not to abandon loyalty,
how not to surrender faith,
how to become better
than what we were born to be.