All that I say is, examine, inquire. Look into the nature of

Host: The diner sat on the edge of a forgotten highway, its neon sign flickering in the rain like a pulse barely holding on. Inside, the air hummed with the smell of coffee, diesel, and loneliness. The clock on the wall read 2:14 a.m., though time had long since lost its meaning here.

Jack sat in the corner booth, a half-empty mug before him, a few scribbled papers spread across the table — notes, quotes, fragments of thought. Jeeny walked in, shaking the rain from her coat, her eyes tired but alive. She slid into the booth across from him.

The fluorescent light above them buzzed like a restless thought refusing to quiet.

Jeeny: “You’ve been here for hours. You planning to move in, or just thinking yourself into madness again?”

Jack: “Thinking is madness, Jeeny. Or at least that’s what it feels like lately.”

Host: He spoke with that familiar grit in his voice, as if each word were being dragged across gravel. The papers before him were littered with lines, arrows, and underlined words — evidence of a mind dissecting itself.

Jeeny: “What is it this time?”

Jack: “Frances Wright. You ever read her?”

Jeeny: “The reformer? Early feminist? Of course. ‘Examine, inquire, look into the nature of things…’”

Jack: “Exactly.” He taps one of the pages. “She said we should know why we believe. Have a reason for the faith that’s in us. But the more I examine, the less reason I find for anything.”

Jeeny: “Maybe you’re mistaking doubt for clarity.”

Jack: “Or maybe I’m the only one actually trying to be honest.”

Host: The waitress passed by, refilling their cups with coffee that smelled like it had seen too many nights. A truck roared past outside, spraying the window with water, the sound a low, mournful growl.

Jeeny: “You always sound like truth is a punishment, Jack.”

Jack: “Truth is a punishment. Look at it long enough and you start to see how fragile everything is. Religion, love, ideals — they all crack under scrutiny. Frances Wright said to examine, to question — but she didn’t warn what happens when you find there’s nothing beneath.”

Jeeny: “But there is something beneath. That’s what she meant. The point of inquiry isn’t to destroy belief — it’s to rebuild it stronger. To understand, not to erase.”

Jack: “And what if understanding ruins it?”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it wasn’t worth believing in to begin with.”

Host: The rain softened, tapping rhythmically on the glass, like the heartbeat of a conversation too raw to end. Jack leaned back, his eyes fixed on the window, where the reflection of the diner lights blurred into the darkness.

Jack: “You know, I tried that once — questioning everything. My work, my faith, even the idea of right and wrong. I thought if I tore it all down, I’d find some truth at the core. But all I found was silence. Empty space.”

Jeeny: “That’s because you stopped too soon. You can’t stop at destruction and call it discovery.”

Jack: “You make it sound so easy.”

Jeeny: “It’s not. Frances Wright didn’t say inquiry would comfort you. She said it would make you understand. There’s a difference.”

Jack: “Understanding’s overrated. Give me ignorance with a little peace any day.”

Jeeny: “You don’t mean that. You’d rather bleed from truth than sleep in illusion. You always have.”

Host: Her voice was soft, but her eyes burned — two points of steady light against the dimness of the room. Jack looked at her and almost smiled, the kind of smile that comes from being seen too clearly.

Jack: “You think people really want to know why they believe? Most don’t. They just want to be right.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But some of us still want to be awake.”

Jack: “Awake to what? The hypocrisy of everything? The fact that every system, every creed, is built on sand?”

Jeeny: “Awake to the possibility that even sand can form something beautiful if we understand how it moves.”

Jack: “That’s poetic. But Frances Wright wasn’t a poet. She was a fighter. She questioned because she refused to be told what to think.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. She wanted people to stop parroting what they’ve been fed — to stand on their own convictions. You’re doing the same thing, Jack. You just haven’t realized it’s not a curse, it’s the beginning of wisdom.”

Host: Jack’s hand tightened around his cup, the steam fogging his glasses slightly. His breathing slowed. For the first time, he didn’t argue.

Jeeny: “When I was in university, I used to quote Frances Wright during debates. Everyone called me idealistic, naïve even. But her point wasn’t about being certain. It was about earning your beliefs — not inheriting them. You can’t just have faith. You have to understand why.”

Jack: “Faith without reason. That’s what most of the world runs on.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s why the world keeps tripping.”

Host: The waitress turned off the neon “OPEN” sign, and the diner dimmed to a softer, amber glow. The rain had slowed to a whisper. Outside, a faint mist hung over the asphalt, glowing under the streetlight like breath on a mirror.

Jack: “Do you ever get tired of searching, Jeeny?”

Jeeny: “Every day. But the alternative is worse.”

Jack: “You mean blindness?”

Jeeny: “No. Stagnation. The kind that looks like peace but feels like death.”

Host: Jack’s fingers drifted across one of the papers. Written in his scrawled handwriting were the words: Why do I believe what I believe? He stared at it for a long time, as if trying to see through the ink into the mind that wrote it.

Jack: “Maybe inquiry is the closest thing to faith I’ve got left.”

Jeeny: “Then you’re closer to believing than you think.”

Jack: “Believing in what?”

Jeeny: “In the act of seeking itself. The faith that the truth — whatever it is — is worth finding.”

Host: The clock ticked again. 2:45 a.m. The rain had stopped