How absurd men are! They never use the liberties they have, they

Host: The sky above the city was a deep iron blue, heavy with the promise of rain that never quite came. Neon lights flickered along the cracked walls of an old bookstore café, where the smell of espresso, ink, and storm air mixed into something oddly sacred.

Inside, the tables were scattered with forgotten books and half-empty cups. A ceiling fan hummed lazily, pushing the scent of paper and melancholy in slow circles.

At the back table — always the same one — Jack and Jeeny sat opposite each other. Jack’s coat hung over the chair, still damp from the drizzle. Jeeny’s hands were wrapped around a cup of black coffee, its steam rising like a small ghost between them.

A single bulb hung above their table, its light dim but defiant.

Jeeny: (reading from her notebook) “Søren Kierkegaard said, ‘How absurd men are! They never use the liberties they have; they demand those they do not have. They have freedom of thought, they demand freedom of speech.’”

Jack: (leans back, smirking) “That’s Kierkegaard for you — too honest for comfort. He’s right though. People love the idea of freedom, just not the work it requires.”

Jeeny: (raising an eyebrow) “You think thinking’s work?”

Jack: “The hardest kind. Most people don’t want freedom of thought — they want freedom from thought.”

Jeeny: “You sound like you’ve given up on humanity already.”

Jack: (half-smiles) “No, I just don’t romanticize it. We’re built to follow noise, not silence. Thought demands solitude, and solitude terrifies us.”

Host: The rain began, soft at first, then steady — each drop a metronome against the glass. The world outside blurred into color and motion, while inside, the air grew thick with reflection.

Jeeny: “Maybe people demand freedom of speech because they’re afraid their thoughts aren’t strong enough to survive silence. Words make them real.”

Jack: “Or they hide behind words. It’s easier to shout than to think. Twitter proves that every day.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “You quoting social media now? That’s new for a cynic.”

Jack: “Cynics observe. That’s our sport.”

Jeeny: “No, cynics hide behind observation. It’s your armor, Jack.”

Jack: (leans forward) “Maybe. But at least I know I’m wearing it. Most people walk around believing their opinions are liberation, when they’re just noise wrapped in confidence.”

Jeeny: “And you think silence is any better?”

Jack: “Yes. Because silence makes you face the truth of what you actually believe.”

Host: The light flickered slightly, catching the edge of Jeeny’s face — the hint of a smile fading into thought. The café’s old clock ticked in rhythm with the rain.

Jeeny: “You know, Kierkegaard wasn’t mocking speech. He was mourning our laziness. Freedom of thought is the seed; freedom of speech is the flower. The tragedy is we want the bloom without the root.”

Jack: “And the garden dies of vanity.”

Jeeny: (nodding) “Exactly. People shout about freedom because it’s loud. Thinking is too quiet to be fashionable.”

Jack: (grinning) “You’d make a dangerous philosopher, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “Only if people actually listened.”

Host: The rain intensified, blurring the windows until the outside world vanished. The room felt cocooned in its own small universe — a shelter for inconvenient truths.

Jack: “You ever notice how every generation claims it’s fighting for freedom? Political freedom, digital freedom, moral freedom. Yet somehow, no one feels freer.”

Jeeny: “Because they confuse freedom with permission. Permission is granted; freedom is taken. And the one you take — that’s the one that costs you something.”

Jack: “You mean, thinking for yourself.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s the quietest rebellion there is.”

Jack: “Then why do people run from it?”

Jeeny: “Because independent thought doesn’t give you applause. It gives you loneliness.”

Jack: “And no one wants to eat lunch alone in this world.”

Jeeny: “So we trade authenticity for company.”

Host: A couple at a nearby table laughed loudly, their voices breaking the stillness like stones thrown into a pond. Jack glanced toward them, then back at Jeeny.

The moment felt delicate — like truth perched on the edge of something too fragile to name.

Jack: “You think speech without thought is dangerous?”

Jeeny: “More dangerous than silence. Words shape reality. But when they’re empty — when they’re used to echo, not to illuminate — they turn into noise that deafens us.”

Jack: “So the louder the world gets, the less anyone’s actually saying.”

Jeeny: “Yes. The world’s full of people talking to be heard, not to be understood.”

Jack: (leaning forward) “And you? You speak to be understood?”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “I speak to remember what I think.”

Host: A flicker of lightning lit up the glass for a split second — a brief mirror of their faces. Two thinkers, divided by the same storm, bound by the same ache for clarity.

Jack: “You know what I find absurd? People keep demanding ‘freedom of speech’ like it’s been stolen from them — but hand their thoughts away for likes, for applause. They don’t want liberty. They want validation.”

Jeeny: “Validation feels like freedom when you don’t know what freedom is.”

Jack: “You should write that down.”

Jeeny: “I just did.” (taps her notebook)

Jack: “You’re proving Kierkegaard’s point, you know. Thinking in private, writing in peace — while the world screams about censorship.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the real rebellion isn’t speaking louder. It’s thinking deeper.”

Jack: “That’s not rebellion. That’s resurrection.”

Host: The storm roared outside, thunder rumbling like the low growl of the universe. Inside, their voices softened, almost reverent, as if they’d stumbled onto something sacred amid the noise.

Jeeny: “You ever wonder, Jack, what freedom actually feels like? Not the kind they put in constitutions — the kind you carry in your mind?”

Jack: “It feels heavy. Because once you have it, you can’t pretend you don’t know better.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Freedom of thought is responsibility disguised as liberty.”

Jack: “And freedom of speech?”

Jeeny: “That’s temptation. The desire to make others bear your truths before you’ve fully borne them yourself.”

Jack: “So we speak to escape the burden of thought.”

Jeeny: “And call it expression.”

Host: The clock struck ten, its sound echoing softly in the near-empty café. The rain softened to a mist, and the reflections on the window grew clearer — city lights shimmering like quiet neurons firing across the night.

Jack: (after a long pause) “Maybe Kierkegaard wasn’t accusing us. Maybe he was warning us.”

Jeeny: “About what?”

Jack: “That the mind is the last true refuge. And that if we forget how to think before we speak, we’ll end up confusing noise with meaning — and call it progress.”

Jeeny: (gazing out the window) “Maybe that’s already happened.”

Jack: “Then maybe our only revolution is to slow down. To think before we echo.”

Jeeny: “To earn the words we use.”

Jack: “Exactly.”

Host: The rain stopped. The world outside gleamed wet and reflective — the city reborn in stillness. Inside, the candle had burned low, its wick a small red eye refusing to die.

Jeeny closed her notebook. Jack drained the last of his whiskey. Neither spoke for a while. The silence between them felt like a cathedral.

Jeeny: (finally) “You know, Jack… maybe Kierkegaard wasn’t calling people absurd. Maybe he was just heartbroken — that we have so much freedom, and use so little of it.”

Jack: (softly) “Maybe that’s the human condition. We ask for what dazzles and ignore what saves.”

Jeeny: “So what saves us?”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “Thought.”

Jeeny: “And what damns us?”

Jack: “Speech — when we mistake it for thought.”

Host: The camera would pull back now — the two of them small figures in a vast, quiet café, the storm lifting beyond the window. The faint hum of the world returned — cars, footsteps, whispers — all of it flowing again, unexamined, unbroken.

The candle flickered one last time before extinguishing itself, leaving only the echo of their conversation and the soft light of dawn beginning to stretch across the glass.

And as the scene faded, Kierkegaard’s words lingered like an aftertaste of truth —

that the tragedy of freedom is not in its absence,
but in our refusal to use it;

that speech without thought is not liberty,
but echo;

and that the truest revolution begins not in the shout,
but in the quiet courage to think —
to face the storm of one’s own mind
before trying to change the world.