How is it possible that a being with such sensitive jewels as the

Host: The night had just fallen over the city, casting long shadows across the empty streets. A faint mist drifted through the air, curling around the streetlamps like ghostly silk. Inside an old warehouse café by the river, the yellow light of a single lamp spilled over two figures sitting across a wooden table. The rain tapped the windows like an impatient poet. Jack’s hands were wrapped around a cup of black coffee, his eyes cold, measuring, and grey. Jeeny’s fingers rested gently on the rim of her glass, her dark hair slightly damp, her eyes glowing like embers in the dim light.

Jeeny: “Alan Watts once said, ‘How is it possible that a being with such sensitive jewels as the eyes, such enchanted musical instruments as the ears, and such fabulous arabesque of nerves as the brain can experience itself anything less than a god?’”

Jack: (low voice, half a laugh) “Maybe because this so-called god still bleeds, still dies, still fails to pay rent on time.”

Host: The lamp flickered, and for a moment, the shadows moved like restless souls across the walls.

Jeeny: “You always drag beauty into the mud, Jack. He wasn’t talking about perfection — he was talking about awareness. About the miracle of just being.”

Jack: “Miracle?” (He leaned back, eyes narrowing) “You call it a miracle that our brains are the byproduct of millions of years of random evolution? That our ‘sensitive jewels’ are really just optical nerves interpreting reflected light? Watts romanticized the machinery of survival.”

Jeeny: “No. He recognized it. He saw what most people forget — that even a single moment of consciousness is infinite. The eyes that see the stars, the ears that hear a symphony — these are divine, Jack. You can’t measure that with logic.”

Host: The sound of a distant train rumbled through the night, its echo mingling with the steady beat of the rain. Jack stared into his cup as if it were a mirror of everything he denied himself to feel.

Jack: “Divine, huh? Tell that to the people who lost everything in the wars. Tell it to the mother who can’t feed her child tonight. Are their eyes divine while they watch the world collapse around them?”

Jeeny: “Yes,” (she whispered, then lifted her head) “because even in despair, they see. Even when the world breaks them, they still experience the raw pulse of existence. That’s what he meant. To be aware — even of suffering — is godlike.”

Host: A brief silence fell, filled only by the hiss of the rain and the faint crackle of the café’s old radio.

Jack: “You’re mistaking endurance for divinity. You’re saying pain is proof of being godlike? That’s absurd.”

Jeeny: “No, I’m saying that awareness makes us more than animals. Think of Beethoven — deaf, broken, yet he still heard music inside him. He couldn’t even hear his own notes, but his mind still sang. Isn’t that godlike?”

Jack: (pausing, brow furrowing) “Or maybe it’s just the last flicker of a desperate mind trying to find meaning before it dies.”

Jeeny: “You think meaning is a luxury. But without it, what’s the point of all this?” (She gestured around — the world, the rain, the light, the tired walls.) “If we’re not gods of our perception, then we’re just ghosts drifting through biology.”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened. He set his cup down a bit too hard, the sound of porcelain echoing like a brief thunderclap.

Jack: “You know what’s real, Jeeny? Hunger. Decay. Aging. The mind doesn’t make you divine — it just makes you aware of how fragile you are. Watts’ words are poetic, sure. But they’re the kind of poetry that hides the truth. The universe doesn’t care about our sensitivity. It crushes gods and insects alike.”

Jeeny: “Then why are you so angry at it, Jack? If it means nothing, why do you feel so much?”

Host: The question hung in the air, sharp as a knife, soft as light. Jack’s eyes flickered, and for a heartbeat, his mask cracked.

Jack: “Because... I once believed what you do.” (He looked away.) “When my father died, I told myself he’d become part of something bigger. That his consciousness had... expanded. But all I saw was a body cooling, a silence too complete. If we’re gods, Jeeny, why do we die like animals?”

Jeeny: “Because even gods fall. But falling doesn’t make you less divine — it makes you real. Your father’s eyes once saw you, his ears once heard you laugh. That connection — that music — doesn’t vanish. It becomes memory, and memory shapes the living.”

Host: A single car passed outside, its lights gliding briefly across their faces — two souls on opposite sides of faith, yet tethered by the same hunger to understand.

Jack: “So you’re saying divinity is just... the ability to feel?”

Jeeny: “To feel deeply, to perceive fully. That’s what separates consciousness from chaos. Watts wasn’t worshiping the body — he was worshiping awareness itself.”

Jack: “And yet awareness brings suffering. The more we see, the more we ache.”

Jeeny: “Yes,” (she smiled, softly) “but we also love more. We create. We forgive. We build art from pain. Isn’t that what gods do — turn nothing into something sacred?”

Host: The rain softened, becoming a thin veil over the city. Jack rubbed his forehead, the muscles of his face relaxing, like a storm passing through him.

Jack: “You make it sound beautiful. But beauty doesn’t stop suffering.”

Jeeny: “It doesn’t need to. It transforms it. Think of the first photograph of Earth from space — that fragile blue sphere floating in black. For the first time, humanity saw itself from outside. People cried, Jack. Do you know why? Because they recognized the miracle Watts spoke of — that we are aware of ourselves being.”

Host: The silence between them widened, but it wasn’t cold now. It was tender, like the space between notes in a song.

Jack: “You know... when I was a kid, I used to lie on the grass and stare at the sky until I got dizzy. I thought I could fall into it. Maybe that was the last time I felt like a god.”

Jeeny: “And what stopped you?”

Jack: (after a long pause) “Life. Deadlines. Debt. The noise of everything meaningless.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe all we need is to remember. Not believe, not worship — just remember what it felt like to see.”

Host: The lamp hummed, a faint buzz of electricity like the heartbeat of the moment. Jack’s hand moved, almost unconsciously, and touched Jeeny’s across the table.

Jack: “You always make it sound simple.”

Jeeny: “It is. You open your eyes, and you realize — they’re jewels. You open your ears, and you realize — they’re instruments. You think, and you realize — your thoughts are the arabesque Watts spoke of. How can something like that be ordinary?”

Host: Jack smiled, the first real smile of the night. The tension melted, replaced by something quieter — not belief, but peace.

Jack: “Maybe gods aren’t supposed to be perfect. Maybe they just need to be aware.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Awareness is creation itself. We don’t need thrones. We just need eyes that still wonder.”

Host: The rain stopped. A thin ray of moonlight broke through the clouds, painting the table in silver. Outside, the river reflected the city lights, shimmering like a living mirror of the sky.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny... maybe Alan Watts wasn’t describing gods at all. Maybe he was describing humans who’ve finally remembered how to be alive.”

Jeeny: (softly) “And that’s all we ever were.”

Host: The moonlight settled on their faces, two silhouettes framed by the stillness of the night. The camera of the world pulled back, capturing the quiet glow of two beings — fragile, flawed, yet divine in their awareness. The city slept, and somewhere within its pulse, the universe listened.