Change is not a linear process; it's an all-encompassing process

Host: The rain was falling in slow, deliberate drops, each one echoing softly against the tin roof of the old train depot. The place had been long abandoned, its walls streaked with rust, its air carrying the smell of iron and memory. A single lamp, flickering near the entrance, threw light across the floor, revealing puddles, peeling paint, and the faint outline of old graffiti — words half-erased by time but still breathing through the cracks.

Jack stood near the platform edge, hands in his coat pockets, watching the tracks disappear into darkness. Beside him, Jeeny leaned against a pillar, her umbrella half-open, raindrops sliding down its surface like small truths refusing to be caught.

Host: They had come here after the protest — or what remained of it. The crowds had dispersed, the chants had faded, and all that was left was the echo of something that once felt alive.

Jeeny: “Genesis P-Orridge said something once: ‘Change is not a linear process; it’s an all-encompassing process, and it’s alive in different ways.’”

Jack: (dryly) “Alive in different ways. That sounds like something you’d say when you can’t explain what the hell’s happening.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Maybe that’s the point, Jack. Change isn’t supposed to be explained — it’s supposed to be felt.”

Host: A gust of wind rushed through the station, lifting a few old papers, rattling the metal beams like distant music.

Jack: “I’ve felt it, Jeeny. It’s chaos. One day you think you know where your life’s going, the next it’s somewhere else entirely. People like to romanticize change — but it’s just disorder wearing lipstick.”

Jeeny: “Disorder isn’t always destruction. Sometimes it’s birth. You just don’t see the shape yet.”

Jack: “Birth hurts, doesn’t it?”

Jeeny: “So does staying the same too long.”

Host: The silence between them was thick, like smoke that refused to lift. The rain had turned into a soft drizzle, whispering against the metal rails, as if the earth itself was listening.

Jack: “You think change is alive. I think it’s just momentum — the consequence of everything falling apart in sequence.”

Jeeny: “Then why does it feel so personal, Jack? Why does it reach into you, reshape you, make you question everything you are?”

Jack: “Because people hate uncertainty. When things start to shift, they panic. Change isn’t life — it’s instability.”

Jeeny: (gently) “Maybe you only call it instability because you haven’t learned its rhythm yet.”

Host: Jack turned, his grey eyes catching the light from the lamp, the sharpness in them tempered by something quieter, almost tired.

Jack: “You talk like change is some kind of religion. I’ve seen what ‘all-encompassing processes’ do. My company tried to ‘reinvent’ itself once — fired half its people, rebuilt its image, called it evolution. The ones who survived didn’t evolve; they adapted out of fear.”

Jeeny: “That’s not change, Jack. That’s panic disguised as progress. Real change doesn’t come from fear. It comes from something deeper — an ache for truth.”

Jack: “Truth. That word again. Everyone claims to chase it, but it’s the first thing they abandon when it gets uncomfortable.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe discomfort is exactly where truth lives.”

Host: Her voice carried through the empty station, echoing softly against the iron beams, as if the walls themselves were listening to something older than language. Jack’s hands tightened in his pockets, his face a mixture of frustration and fascination.

Jack: “You really believe change is something… living?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Like a river. It doesn’t ask for permission to flow; it just finds a new course. Sometimes it floods, sometimes it heals. But it never stops moving.”

Jack: “And what happens when it drowns everything in its path?”

Jeeny: “Then the world grows new roots under the water.”

Host: A train horn wailed faintly in the distance, a ghost sound, long and low. It didn’t belong to this abandoned place — but it made the air vibrate, as if time itself had bent for a moment.

Jack: “You make it sound poetic. But for most people, change means loss. Losing jobs, homes, identities. It’s not rebirth; it’s dismantling.”

Jeeny: “And yet, after every dismantling, something else begins. History proves that. The Renaissance was born out of plague. Civil rights rose from centuries of oppression. Every evolution starts as something falling apart.”

Jack: “So you think destruction is sacred now?”

Jeeny: “Not sacred. Necessary. Sometimes you have to burn the ground to see what was buried beneath.”

Host: Jack exhaled, a low, weary sound, half laugh, half surrender. The lamp above them flickered, throwing shadows that moved like restless spirits.

Jack: “You’re relentless, you know that?”

Jeeny: “No. I’m just alive. Like change.”

Host: A single raindrop fell from the edge of her umbrella, landing on Jack’s shoe, breaking the stillness. He looked down, then met her eyes, and for a brief moment, the walls between skepticism and faith blurred.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe change isn’t something you control — maybe it’s something that controls you until you finally start listening.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s not a ladder; it’s a tide. You can’t climb it. You can only move with it.”

Host: The rain had stopped entirely now. The sky beyond the broken windows was glowing faintly — not quite dawn, but close enough to suggest that it was coming.

Jack: “You know, when I was younger, I used to think life was a straight line. School, career, love, success. But now… it’s just circles within circles.”

Jeeny: “That’s because it’s alive. It grows, it folds, it revisits. Change doesn’t move forward — it breathes.”

Host: The first light of morning began to spill across the station floor, illuminating the dust and the graffiti — We were here. The words seemed suddenly new, like a message left by time itself.

Jack: “You ever think that maybe the reason we fear change is because it reminds us that we’re alive?”

Jeeny: “Of course. Because to be alive is to be unfinished.”

Host: Jack smiled, just barely — the kind of smile that isn’t about joy, but recognition.

Jack: “So that’s it, then. Change isn’t chaos. It’s conversation.”

Jeeny: “Between what was and what’s becoming.”

Host: The wind moved through the broken glass, stirring the dust into a kind of dance. Outside, a ray of sunlight caught the edge of the rails, turning the metal to fire.

Jack and Jeeny stood there, silent, watching, as if the world itself had decided to breathe again.

Host: The camera would have pulled back, capturing the two of them — one figure rooted in reason, the other in reverence — standing in a place between ruin and rebirth.

The rain was gone. The light was new. And the truth, alive in its infinite forms, was already moving through them — not as a straight line, but as a living pulse, circling, changing, becoming.