God gave us the gift of life; it is up to us to give ourselves

Host: The morning light spilled through the wide windows of a small apartment overlooking the city, soft and golden, brushing against the dust that drifted lazily through the air like tiny stars. The smell of coffee lingered, mingled with the faint scent of paint — an unfinished canvas stood by the window, streaked with bold, uncertain colors. Jack sat on the edge of a worn sofa, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar, his eyes shadowed from too many sleepless nights. Jeeny stood by the window, barefoot, her hands cupping a mug, watching the light crawl over the rooftops like time itself.

On the coffee table, written in looping script on a torn page from an old book, lay the quote:
“God gave us the gift of life; it is up to us to give ourselves the gift of living well.” — Voltaire.

The words seemed to hum in the room, like a quiet challenge.

Jack: “I’ve always hated that kind of quote. It makes it sound so… easy. Like living well is just a matter of choice.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is, Jack. Maybe we just forget that we have one.”

Host: The light touched her face, turning her dark hair almost bronze at the edges. Jack looked at her — that quiet faith she carried, as if life itself had never betrayed her — and something in him tightened.

Jack: “You think Voltaire knew what living well meant? He lived in a palace, surrounded by books and wine and wit. It’s easy to talk about the gift of life when you’ve never had to beg for it.”

Jeeny: “You think he didn’t suffer? He was exiled, censored, betrayed. But he still called life a gift. Maybe because he knew how fragile it was.”

Jack: “A gift, huh? You ever get a gift you didn’t ask for?”

Jeeny: “Sure. But I still found a way to use it.”

Jack: “That’s the difference between us. You see a lesson, I see a burden.”

Host: The city below began to wake — a car horn, a dog barking, the rustle of human life returning to its daily choreography. Inside, the silence between them pulsed like a slow heartbeat.

Jeeny: “You talk like living is a punishment.”

Jack: “Sometimes it feels like it. You get born, thrown into chaos, told to make sense of it all — and if you don’t, people call you ungrateful.”

Jeeny: “No one said it had to make sense, Jack. Living well doesn’t mean understanding it. It means showing up anyway.”

Jack: “You make it sound poetic, but it’s just survival. You breathe, you eat, you keep going. That’s not living — that’s enduring.”

Jeeny: “Then what’s the difference?”

Jack: “Living means having a reason. Enduring means waiting for one.”

Host: Jeeny set her mug down and walked toward the canvas. The painting was wild, unfinished — a sky of burning oranges and bleeding blues. She ran her fingers along a streak of red, leaving a faint smudge.

Jeeny: “You know what I think? I think most people confuse comfort with living well. They think safety equals meaning. But maybe living well means daring to risk, to feel, to hurt.”

Jack: “That’s just masochism disguised as wisdom.”

Jeeny: “No, that’s what being alive feels like. Look at history — Voltaire didn’t say life was peaceful; he said it was a gift. A gift isn’t supposed to be easy. It’s supposed to be opened, used, shared — even if it breaks a little.”

Jack: “And if you open it and find it’s empty?”

Jeeny: “Then you fill it.”

Host: A ray of sunlight broke through a cloud, falling directly on the canvas. The colors came alive, glowing as though the paint itself was remembering what it was made for. Jack looked at it, then at her, his face softening for just a moment before the wall of cynicism returned.

Jack: “You ever think maybe Voltaire was wrong? Maybe some people don’t get the chance to live well — not because they don’t want to, but because the world doesn’t let them.”

Jeeny: “Of course. But that’s exactly why his words matter. You can’t control the world, Jack, but you can control your response. That’s what he meant. That’s the only freedom we ever truly have.”

Jack: “Freedom? Sounds like a consolation prize.”

Jeeny: “It’s the biggest one we get. The freedom to decide whether you’ll just exist or actually live.”

Host: The light shifted, falling now across Jack’s hands, rough and trembling slightly as they rested on his knees. He stared at them — the hands of a man who had built, destroyed, touched, and lost too much.

Jack: “You make it sound noble. But what about people who fail? Who keep trying to live well but fall short? What gift is that?”

Jeeny: “The gift of trying, Jack. Of being awake enough to notice you’ve failed. Some people sleepwalk through life and never even realize it.”

Jack: “You always find a way to make pain sound holy.”

Jeeny: “Because it is. Pain is proof that we’re still connected. To ourselves. To others. To something that still matters.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked. The sound felt louder now, deliberate, like time reminding them both that it was still moving — whether they chose to or not.

Jack: “You know, I envy you sometimes.”

Jeeny: “Why?”

Jack: “Because you believe life has a point.”

Jeeny: “No, I don’t. I believe life has potential. The point is what we make of it.”

Jack: “And what if I’ve already wasted it?”

Jeeny: “Then start again. That’s the only rule that matters — start again.”

Host: The light grew brighter now, flooding the small room with gold. The city outside gleamed — not pure, not clean, but alive. The painting in the corner caught the light fully, transforming from chaos into something almost deliberate, almost whole.

Jack: “You think Voltaire would say that’s living well? Just… trying again?”

Jeeny: “I think he’d say that’s the only way to deserve the gift.”

Jack: “And what if the gift was given to the wrong person?”

Jeeny: “Then that person has an even bigger chance to surprise everyone — including himself.”

Host: Jack’s laughter came suddenly, sharp but real — the kind that breaks the surface of long-held sadness. Jeeny smiled, stepping closer, her hand resting lightly on his shoulder.

Jeeny: “You don’t have to fix everything, Jack. You just have to live like you know it won’t last forever.”

Jack: “That’s supposed to comfort me?”

Jeeny: “It’s supposed to wake you.”

Jack: “And if I still don’t know what ‘living well’ means?”

Jeeny: “Then start by doing one thing that makes you feel alive. That’s how you find out.”

Host: The city noise swelled — horns, voices, the living hum of a world that never quite slept. Jack stood, finally, and walked to the window. He looked out — at the restless streets, the strangers below, the ordinary miracle of another day beginning. His reflection in the glass looked different now — tired still, but awake.

Jack: “You ever think the gift isn’t life itself, but the chance to make it beautiful?”

Jeeny: “That’s exactly what it is.”

Jack: “Then maybe I’ve been holding it wrong.”

Jeeny: “Maybe you’ve just been afraid to unwrap it.”

Host: The camera would linger there — on Jack’s silhouette against the golden light, on Jeeny standing behind him, the painting glowing like a sunrise inside the room.

And in that quiet, full moment, the truth of Voltaire’s words settled like morning dust — gently, completely.

Host: Because life is given, but living well is earned —
in the small choices, the quiet risks, the stubborn courage to start again after the breaking.

And perhaps that’s the true gift:
Not just the breath we’re born with —
but the grace to make every one of them mean something before it’s gone.