I build no system. I ask an end to privilege, the abolition of

Host: The courthouse square was nearly deserted. The last traces of sunset clung to the horizon like embers refusing to die, while a soft wind carried with it the sound of distant church bells and the quiet murmur of a city at rest. Across the marble steps, a protest banner — half torn, half triumphant — fluttered weakly, its letters fading under the amber streetlight.

Host: Jack sat on the stone railing, a cigarette burning low between his fingers. The smoke curled upward like a question too complicated for answers. Jeeny stood a few feet away, her coat drawn close, her gaze fixed on the statue in the center of the square — a blindfolded woman holding the scales of justice.

Host: The air was cool, heavy with that peculiar stillness that comes after confrontation — when passion fades but meaning remains.

Jeeny: “Pierre-Joseph Proudhon once said, ‘I build no system. I ask an end to privilege, the abolition of slavery, equality of rights, and the reign of law. Justice, nothing else; that is the alpha and omega of my argument: to others I leave the business of governing the world.’”
(she exhaled softly)
“I think that’s one of the most honest things anyone has ever said.”

Jack: “Honest, yes. Realistic, no.”

Jeeny: “Why do you always start there — at impossibility?”

Jack: “Because someone has to. Everyone loves justice in theory. Until it costs them something.”

Host: The cigarette burned down to its filter. Jack flicked it away; the ember tumbled across the stone like a dying conviction.

Jack: “Proudhon was a dreamer. He wanted justice without a system — a world run by conscience alone. But conscience doesn’t scale. People need structure. They need power to keep order.”

Jeeny: “And that power corrupts. Every time. Maybe he was right to refuse to build a system — maybe he knew any system would eventually betray its purpose.”

Jack: “Then what? Chaos? You can’t build equality out of pure sentiment. Justice isn’t a prayer, Jeeny — it’s a mechanism.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It’s a mirror. It shows us who we really are — whether we’re willing to look or not.”

Host: A gust of wind tore through the square, snapping the half-forgotten banners against the flagpoles. Somewhere nearby, a door slammed — the kind of small, ordinary sound that echoes with finality.

Jack: “You think the law can be just without power to enforce it?”

Jeeny: “I think the law can’t be just if it serves power. That’s what Proudhon meant. Justice isn’t supposed to belong to the powerful. It’s supposed to outlive them.”

Jack: “And yet it never does. Empires fall, governments fail, revolutions rot. Justice dies with whoever defines it.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Justice doesn’t die — it hides. It waits for people brave enough to find it again.”

Host: He turned to her then, his eyes sharp, his tone colder than the wind.

Jack: “You sound like a believer.”

Jeeny: “I am. Not in governments or gods, but in the idea that people can still be fair when no one’s watching.”

Jack: “That’s faith, not logic.”

Jeeny: “Faith is the only logic worth keeping.”

Host: The streetlight flickered, casting them in brief flashes of shadow and gold — like truth glimpsed between lies. Jeeny walked closer, her boots echoing against the marble.

Jeeny: “He wasn’t talking about anarchy for the sake of rebellion. He was talking about moral clarity. He wanted a world where justice didn’t need to beg for permission.”

Jack: “And he died before seeing it.”

Jeeny: “So did Martin Luther King. So did Gandhi. So did every prophet who ever dared to say the word ‘equal’ out loud. Their deaths don’t disprove their vision, Jack — they prove its necessity.”

Host: Silence fell again. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed — not frantic, just mournful. The kind that sounds less like danger and more like memory.

Jack: “You think justice can exist without control?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because justice isn’t control — it’s balance. The reign of law, not the rule of rulers.”

Jack: “And who decides what’s just?”

Jeeny: “Everyone — together.”

Jack: “That’s idealism, not policy.”

Jeeny: “It’s the only kind of policy that doesn’t rot from the inside.”

Host: She stepped up onto the same railing he sat on, standing beside him now. Her eyes met his — steady, unflinching, reflecting both challenge and tenderness.

Jeeny: “Justice isn’t a government, Jack. It’s a human rhythm — a pulse that gets buried under greed and fear, but it’s still there, waiting to be remembered.”

Jack: “And what about the people who never hear it?”

Jeeny: “Then it’s our job to speak louder.”

Host: A beat of silence. Then — unexpectedly — Jack smiled. Not out of joy, but recognition.

Jack: “You really believe a world like that could exist?”

Jeeny: “No. But I believe it’s worth acting like it could.”

Jack: “Acting?”

Jeeny: “That’s how it starts. Every revolution, every law, every protest — it begins with someone pretending the impossible isn’t.”

Host: The wind caught her hair, tossing it across her face, but she didn’t move to fix it. She stood still, like a statue breathing.

Jeeny: “Proudhon said, ‘Justice, nothing else.’ Not peace. Not perfection. Just justice. Because justice isn’t a dream — it’s the daily act of refusing to forget our shared worth.”

Jack: “And the alpha and omega?”

Jeeny: “That’s the loop of it — the beginning and the end. The idea that the fight never stops. That we don’t build systems to rest in — we build them to outgrow.”

Host: Jack looked back at the statue of the blindfolded woman. Her scales were tilted — slightly, but visibly. A trick of time, or perhaps of meaning.

Jack: “Do you think she ever knew the scales would never balance?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But she held them anyway.”

Host: The clock tower struck ten, its chime echoing across the square like the voice of a century gone.

Jack: “So, justice without system. Equality without privilege. Freedom without masters. Sounds like utopia.”

Jeeny: “No. It sounds like effort. The kind we’re not done making.”

Host: She reached out, her hand brushing his briefly — a small gesture, human and grounding, like an oath between two weary witnesses.

Jeeny: “You said people love justice until it costs them. Maybe that’s true. But maybe the real believers are the ones who pay anyway.”

Host: Jack’s gaze softened, the last hint of irony dissolving from his eyes.

Jack: “Maybe that’s what makes it sacred.”

Jeeny: “No. That’s what makes it possible.”

Host: The camera slowly pulled back — the statue, the two figures, the trembling banner — all framed beneath the endless night.

Host: Above them, the streetlight steadied, its glow unwavering now.

Host: And as the wind swept through the square again, it carried Proudhon’s echo — not as a proclamation, but as a promise:

Justice, nothing else.

The alpha and the omega.
The first word and the last.
The beginning that refuses to end.