I believe that imagination is stronger than knowledge. That myth

Host: The night had folded itself over the city like a velvet curtain, quiet and infinite. The streetlights hummed faintly, their halos trembling in the mist. Across from the old bridge, there stood a little café — the kind that looked out of place in time, its windows fogged, its light golden, its door half open as if still waiting for someone who hadn’t come home yet.

Inside, the air was thick with the scent of coffee, rain, and the faint trace of music from a small speaker in the corner. The tables were mostly empty except for two figures — Jack and Jeeny — seated by the window. The reflection of the city lights wove itself through the glass, wrapping around them like a story being told in silence.

Jack’s hands were clasped around a chipped cup, his eyes distant but alive. Jeeny sat across from him, her chin resting lightly on her hand, her eyes luminous in the low light. Between them, an open notebook — the kind that collects truths too fragile to say aloud.

Jeeny: “Robert Fulghum once wrote: ‘I believe that imagination is stronger than knowledge. That myth is more potent than history. That dreams are more powerful than facts. That hope always triumphs over experience. That laughter is the only cure for grief. And I believe that love is stronger than death.’”

Jack: (softly) “That sounds like something you’d whisper to someone who’s given up.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s something we all need to whisper to ourselves sometimes.”

Host: The rain began again — gentle, rhythmic, the kind that fills silence without interrupting it. The light from the lamppost outside flickered, catching in the raindrops like little, falling stars.

Jack: “It’s beautiful. Too beautiful to be true.”

Jeeny: “Why can’t beauty be true?”

Jack: “Because it sounds naive. Imagination stronger than knowledge? Hope triumphing over experience? That’s not how the world works.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. That’s not how the world breaks. But it’s how it heals.”

Host: Jack leaned back, his chair creaking, his eyes tracing the faint condensation trails on the window. His reflection stared back — tired, skeptical, but softening.

Jack: “You really believe imagination can be stronger than knowledge?”

Jeeny: “Of course. Knowledge builds the world; imagination redeems it. Without imagination, knowledge just repeats itself.”

Jack: “So myth over history too?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because myth isn’t about what happened — it’s about what matters. History tells us what we did. Myth tells us who we are.”

Jack: “And dreams more powerful than facts?”

Jeeny: “Always. Facts tell us where we are. Dreams tell us where we could go.”

Host: Her voice was calm, but her words carried a quiet fire. Jack looked at her — really looked — the way one studies light before it fades.

Jack: “You sound like someone who’s never been disappointed.”

Jeeny: “No. I sound like someone who has — and chose not to stay there.”

Jack: “Hope over experience. That’s the one that gets me. Experience hurts. Hope just gets people hurt again.”

Jeeny: “Hope isn’t blindness, Jack. It’s rebellion. Every time you hope, you defy what hurt you.”

Jack: “And when it fails?”

Jeeny: “Then you start again. Because even broken hope is better than permanent despair.”

Host: The café owner passed quietly behind them, refilling their cups, his movements practiced, reverent. Steam rose between them, blurring their faces for a heartbeat — two souls dissolving into the same warmth.

Jack: “You think laughter really cures grief?”

Jeeny: “Not cures it — transforms it. It doesn’t erase pain; it lets it breathe. Laughter is what grief sounds like when it’s learning to stand.”

Jack: (half-smiling) “You always make tragedy sound poetic.”

Jeeny: “That’s because tragedy is just love in disguise — love that didn’t get to finish its sentence.”

Host: The wind outside rattled the glass lightly, a soft percussion to their quiet symphony. Jeeny’s eyes caught the reflection of the street beyond — people hurrying under umbrellas, unaware of how delicate their own stories looked from afar.

Jack: (after a pause) “And love being stronger than death?”

Jeeny: “Isn’t that the only reason we survive the people we lose?”

Jack: “You mean memory?”

Jeeny: “No. Presence. Love doesn’t leave. It just changes form.”

Jack: “You sound certain.”

Jeeny: “I’ve seen people keep living because someone loved them once — deeply. That love becomes a map. Even after death, it points you forward.”

Jack: “So you think love’s eternal?”

Jeeny: “Not eternal like time. Eternal like gravity. Invisible but inevitable.”

Host: Jack’s hand rested unconsciously on the notebook between them. His thumb brushed over a word he’d written earlier — faith — underlined twice, uncertainly.

Jeeny: “You don’t have to believe all of it, you know.”

Jack: “No?”

Jeeny: “No. You just have to want to.”

Jack: “That’s harder than it sounds.”

Jeeny: “Of course it is. Hope always sounds ridiculous to the experienced.”

Host: The rain eased again, slowing to a hush. Somewhere outside, a church bell rang once, faintly, as if echoing her words.

Jack: (softly) “You ever wonder if Fulghum was right — or if he was just dreaming out loud?”

Jeeny: “Maybe both. Maybe dreams and truth are just two sides of the same heartbeat.”

Jack: “And which side are we on?”

Jeeny: “Tonight? The dreaming one.”

Host: The café grew quieter. The last customers had gone, and the owner dimmed the lights, leaving only the faint glow from the window. Jeeny reached for her coat, but her gaze stayed on him — steady, kind.

Jeeny: “You know, imagination and myth — they’re not about escaping the world. They’re about re-enchanting it. Making it bearable again.”

Jack: “By lying to ourselves?”

Jeeny: “By believing something beautiful might still be true, even if it isn’t proven yet.”

Jack: “That’s dangerous.”

Jeeny: “So is despair.”

Host: He laughed then — quietly, unexpectedly. The kind of laugh that comes from the same place as tears. Jeeny smiled back, her eyes soft, her breath fogging the glass between them and the outside world.

Jack: “You make it sound like belief is an art form.”

Jeeny: “It is. The most human one.”

Jack: “And you — what do you believe, Jeeny?”

Jeeny: “I believe that everything that breaks us also teaches us to hold each other better. That grief and laughter share the same pulse. And that the only thing stronger than death is the way we love through it.”

Host: The rain stopped completely. The street outside gleamed under the streetlights — wet, golden, endless.

Jack closed his notebook.

Jack: “You know, for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel like a cynic.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Then you’re already believing.”

Host: They sat for a while longer in silence — two figures framed in the soft light of the fading night, surrounded by warmth, memory, and the faint scent of rain.

Outside, the world turned quietly, unknowing that somewhere inside a small café, two people had remembered how to believe.

Because as Robert Fulghum wrote — and as Jack and Jeeny finally understood —

Knowledge builds the mind.
Imagination frees the soul.
Myth gives meaning to what history forgets.
Dreams outlast the facts that fail us.
Hope rewrites what experience tries to end.
Laughter resurrects what grief buries.
And love — always love — is what remains when everything else has gone.