Birth is violent, and out of that violence is our only chance of

Host: The sky was a black ocean above the desert, its horizon bleeding faintly with the dying fire of sunset. The wind came in slow, heavy gusts, dragging sand like whispers over forgotten bones. A storm was forming far in the distance — not yet thunder, but promise.

In the middle of the emptiness, two figures stood by a burnt-out car, its metal frame twisted, its story ended. Jack leaned against it, a cigarette trembling between his fingers, his eyes fixed on the horizon as if something ancient might rise from it. Jeeny sat on the hood, her hair whipping wild in the wind, her face lit only by the ember glow of his cigarette.

Host: The night was coming like a closing fist. Somewhere in that silence — raw, trembling, infinite — the universe seemed to be holding its breath.

Jeeny: “Nick Nolte once said, ‘Birth is violent, and out of that violence is our only chance of rebirth.’”
Her voice carried like a small fire in the dark — flickering, steady, defiant. “I’ve always thought that’s the truest thing ever said about life.”

Jack: He exhaled smoke, the ash glowing briefly in the dark. “Yeah? You think pain’s a teacher?”

Jeeny: “I think pain’s the midwife,” she said. “Nothing new is born without destruction. You can’t rebuild until something breaks.”

Host: The wind grew sharper now, cutting across their faces. The air smelled like storm — ozone, earth, and something electric.

Jack: “Sounds poetic,” he said dryly. “But you know what violence really feels like, Jeeny? It’s not poetic. It’s messy, senseless. You don’t get to choose what it destroys.”

Jeeny: “Maybe not,” she said, her eyes fixed on the horizon. “But destruction clears the field. It’s brutal, but it’s honest. You can’t pretend anymore when everything’s been taken away.”

Host: Lightning cracked far off, white fire tearing the sky in half. The brief light carved their faces into sculpture — his, all shadow and scars; hers, all conviction and calm.

Jack: “You’re talking philosophy,” he said. “But for people who’ve lived through real violence — war, betrayal, loss — rebirth isn’t always guaranteed. Sometimes it just leaves ruin.”

Jeeny: “And yet we keep rising,” she replied. “Even when we don’t want to. That’s what I think Nolte meant — not just physical birth, but every time we start again. Every time we crawl out of something that should’ve killed us.”

Host: Her voice trembled now, not with weakness, but with memory. Jack looked at her for the first time — really looked.

Jack: “You’ve been through something,” he said quietly.

Jeeny: She smiled — that small, haunted smile that hides entire histories. “Haven’t we all?” she said. “Everyone’s born twice — once from their mother, and once from their pain.”

Host: The storm drew closer — thunder like slow footsteps approaching across the earth. The sky flashed again, brief and merciless.

Jack: “I used to believe that,” he said. “Until my sister died. Then I realized some things don’t transform you — they just hollow you out.”

Jeeny: “Maybe the hollowing is the transformation,” she said. “Maybe rebirth isn’t about becoming full again, but learning to live with the emptiness — to make it sacred.”

Host: He turned away, his jaw tight. The wind whipped around them, flinging sand against metal, a sound like applause for some invisible god of endings.

Jack: “You talk about pain like it’s grace,” he said. “But I’ve seen what it does to people — how it eats them. It doesn’t purify; it rots.”

Jeeny: “Only if you let it,” she said. “Violence births us into awareness. It forces us to see ourselves stripped of illusion. The pain isn’t the point — the awakening is.”

Host: The thunder rolled again, closer now, echoing through the vast empty plain. Jeeny stood, her small frame silhouetted against the lightning-slashed sky.

Jeeny: “Do you think a seed doesn’t feel the violence of breaking open? Do you think a star doesn’t scream when it’s born? Everything that comes alive has to rupture first.”

Jack: He stared at her — her words, her fire — and for the first time that night, he couldn’t find an argument.

Jack: “You really think all this — the pain, the loss, the breaking — is necessary?”

Jeeny: “It’s the only thing that’s ever made us grow,” she said. “When you lost your sister — you didn’t just lose, Jack. You changed. You became someone who feels. Someone who can’t lie to himself anymore. That’s violent. That’s rebirth.”

Host: The first drops of rain fell — cold, heavy, deliberate. They hit the dust like punctuation marks on an unfinished prayer. Jack lifted his head, eyes closing as the storm washed over him.

Jack: “So that’s it then,” he said, half to himself. “We’re all just being born again and again. Torn open, stitched shut, reborn through the same pain we try to escape.”

Jeeny: “Yes,” she whispered. “Until we stop fighting it. Until we understand that being broken isn’t the end — it’s the process.”

Host: The lightning illuminated them again — two figures standing in the middle of nowhere, both shaped and shattered by something larger than themselves. The storm roared now, full-throated, magnificent.

Jack: “You know,” he said, smiling faintly through the rain, “I used to think survival was strength. Now I think it’s surrender.”

Jeeny: “That’s rebirth,” she said. “The moment you stop fighting what broke you — that’s when you start living again.”

Host: The rain came harder, a torrent now, erasing the boundaries between land and sky, between silence and sound. Jack laughed — low, unguarded, almost joyous — and raised his arms to the storm. Jeeny watched him, her eyes reflecting both sorrow and light.

Jack: “You’re right,” he said, voice raised over the thunder. “Birth is violent. But it’s the only violence that gives life.”

Jeeny: “Exactly,” she said. “And every time we rise from our own ruins, we’re born again — not new, but more real.”

Host: The rain softened, the sky exhaled. The storm moved east, leaving behind a faint shimmer of light on the wet ground — like the earth itself had been baptized.

They stood there in silence, drenched, breathing the air that smelled of metal and renewal.

Host: Jack turned to Jeeny, his face lit with something fragile — not peace exactly, but understanding.

Jack: “You know,” he said quietly, “maybe we don’t survive pain. Maybe we’re recreated by it.”

Jeeny: “Yes,” she whispered. “That’s the difference. Survival just endures. Rebirth transforms.”

Host: A faint light broke through the clouds — dawn, reluctant but pure. The first rays cut through the fading storm, illuminating the desert in streaks of pale gold.

Host: And as they stood amid the wreckage and the wet earth, Nick Nolte’s words seemed to echo through the wind itself — fierce, tender, eternal:

that birth is violent,
that creation demands destruction,
and that only by walking through the fire of our own undoing
do we ever find the fragile, holy truth of beginning again.