All human actions have one or more of these seven causes: chance

Host: The night air was restless — humid, electric, filled with the pulse of the city refusing to sleep. From the cracked-open window of a small downtown apartment, the sounds of traffic, sirens, and a faint street saxophone drifted in, weaving together like the heartbeat of something ancient wearing modern clothes.

The room itself was dim — lit by a single lamp, its golden light cutting through cigarette smoke that coiled in lazy spirals toward the ceiling. Books, scribbled notes, and two half-empty glasses of whiskey cluttered the old wooden table where Jack and Jeeny sat. Between them, an old copy of Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics lay open — its spine cracked, its margins scarred with years of thought.

Outside, the rain began — soft and deliberate, like punctuation between breaths.

Jeeny: (tracing her finger along the text) “All human actions have one or more of these seven causes: chance, nature, compulsions, habit, reason, passion, desire.”

Jack: (leans back, smirking) “Aristotle always did love his lists. Seven neat boxes to explain the chaos of human behavior. Makes you wonder if he ever met a modern human being.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “You mean you?”

Jack: “Exactly. I don’t fit in any of those boxes.”

Jeeny: “Sure you do. You’re a creature of reason pretending to be ruled by chance.”

Jack: “And you’re a creature of passion pretending it’s habit.”

Host: Her laugh cut softly through the smoke, the kind of sound that lands like music on a night too heavy for silence. The rain tapped harder now, the world outside melting into streaks of neon reflection.

Jack: “Let’s break it down then, philosopher. Chance — that’s just the universe playing dice. Half of what happens to us isn’t our doing.”

Jeeny: “But our response is. That’s where the other six come in.”

Jack: “Nature, then. Biology, instincts. You can’t fight what’s wired into your bones.”

Jeeny: “You can transcend it. That’s what separates us from animals.”

Jack: (raising an eyebrow) “Funny. You say that, yet passion’s right there on his list too. And passion’s nothing but nature dressed in poetry.”

Jeeny: “No. Passion is when nature meets consciousness. When the animal learns to feel.”

Host: The lamp flickered, a soft pulse of amber in the smoke-filled air. Jack leaned forward, elbows on the table, his eyes glinting like tempered steel.

Jack: “Then there’s compulsion. The things we have to do. The things that don’t ask for permission.”

Jeeny: “Yes. The gravity inside us. The unspoken drives — hunger, fear, longing.”

Jack: “So you’re saying we’re all slaves to something?”

Jeeny: “Not slaves — participants. Every choice is a conversation with one of those seven forces.”

Jack: “And habit?”

Jeeny: “Habit is how we survive the noise. The repetition that tricks the chaos into order.”

Jack: “Or how we destroy ourselves without noticing.”

Host: His voice lowered, the words carrying the weight of lived truth. The silence after was thick — not empty, but full, like air before thunder.

Jeeny: (gently) “You think habit’s destruction?”

Jack: “I’ve seen people drown in it. Get up, work, eat, sleep. Repeat. No reason, no passion, no desire. Just motion without meaning.”

Jeeny: “That’s not habit. That’s surrender.”

Jack: “And what’s the difference?”

Jeeny: “Surrender gives up. Habit endures.”

Host: Her eyes caught the light, deep brown turning molten. Jack looked away, exhaling smoke that curled into question marks above them.

Jack: “Then we reach reason — Aristotle’s golden child. He thought it made us divine.”

Jeeny: “Doesn’t it?”

Jack: “No. It makes us dangerous. Reason builds bombs, not just bridges.”

Jeeny: “Because it forgot passion. Reason without desire is architecture without art.”

Jack: (half-smile) “So you’d rather burn than build?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes you have to burn what’s false to make room for what’s true.”

Host: The rain intensified, wind pressing against the windowpane. A flash of lightning illuminated the room for a second — two silhouettes frozen between defiance and understanding.

Jack: “That leaves passion and desire. The poets’ playground.”

Jeeny: “The soul’s fire.”

Jack: “Or its addiction.”

Jeeny: “You talk like someone who’s never surrendered to it.”

Jack: “I did once. It nearly killed me.”

Jeeny: (softly) “Then you did it wrong.”

Host: The thunder rolled outside, long and low, like the echo of something older than speech. Jack looked at her — really looked — and for a moment, the list of seven seemed small beside the storm between them.

Jack: “You know what bothers me about Aristotle’s list?”

Jeeny: “What?”

Jack: “He missed one.”

Jeeny: “Oh? Which?”

Jack: “Love.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “That’s because he knew love isn’t a cause. It’s a consequence.”

Jack: “You think love’s the sum of all seven?”

Jeeny: “Of course. Think about it — chance brings two people together; nature draws them close; compulsion keeps them reaching; habit sustains; reason justifies; passion ignites; desire makes it dangerous.”

Jack: (whispering) “And love…?”

Jeeny: “Love is what remains after the causes have done their work.”

Host: The rain eased, the city’s heartbeat slowing to a steady hum. The lamplight softened, spilling over the table like honey. Jack leaned back, the edges of his cynicism fading.

Jack: “Maybe Aristotle was smarter than both of us. He wasn’t trying to explain love. He was explaining why we fail at it.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. Or maybe he was just trying to map the forces that make us human — the ones we can’t escape.”

Jack: “You think we ever really act from reason alone?”

Jeeny: “Never. Reason is just the story we tell to make passion sound respectable.”

Jack: “And passion?”

Jeeny: “It’s the story that reminds reason it’s alive.”

Host: A long pause. The rain stopped entirely now, leaving the city wrapped in silence. The clock ticked — quiet, deliberate — the only rhythm left in the world.

Jack: “So if everything we do comes from one of those seven causes, where does freedom fit in?”

Jeeny: “Freedom isn’t a cause. It’s awareness. It’s knowing which one is speaking before you act.”

Jack: “And what about fate?”

Jeeny: “Fate is when you stop listening.”

Host: The light dimmed, the last glow from the lamp trembling. Jack’s eyes softened, his tone no longer argumentative but curious — the voice of a man who’s begun to see the architecture beneath his own choices.

Jack: (quietly) “So which one’s moving us right now?”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Does it matter?”

Jack: “It always matters.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe… desire lit the spark, reason kept us talking, passion made us honest, and habit — well, that’s what will bring us back here tomorrow.”

Jack: (after a pause) “And chance?”

Jeeny: “Chance was you sitting down at this table.”

Host: A slow smile crossed his face, tired but real. Outside, the clouds parted, and a thin moonlight spilled across the room — pale, clean, forgiving.

The smoke cleared, revealing two people in quiet balance — fragments of philosophy made flesh, their conversation echoing like the hum of an old truth rediscovered.

And as the camera pulled back, Aristotle’s words hung in the air like constellations — seven causes, seven forces, seven chords in the human song:

Chance, the spark of the unforeseen.
Nature, the pulse of our origins.
Compulsion, the gravity within.
Habit, the rhythm that sustains.
Reason, the architect of choice.
Passion, the fire that consumes.
Desire, the current that carries all the rest.

And beyond them — not on the list but always between the lines —
the quiet presence of something unspoken:

the mystery that makes every cause worth pursuing —
the human soul itself,
ever searching for balance
between the rational and the wild.