I change my mind a lot. I usually don't agree with what I say

Host: The night settled like a velvet curtain over the city, its streets slick with rain and the faint echo of distant traffic humming through the air. In a dimly lit bar, tucked behind fogged windows, two figures sat across from each other — Jack and Jeeny. The light above them flickered, bathing their faces in shifting shades of amber and shadow. A single vinyl record spun behind the counter, whispering David Bowie’s voice into the silence: “I change my mind a lot…”

Jeeny’s fingers traced the rim of her glass, her eyes lost in the music. Jack leaned back, his hands around a half-empty whiskey, his expression unreadable — somewhere between contempt and reflection.

Jeeny: “You know, Bowie once said, ‘I change my mind a lot. I usually don’t agree with what I say very much. I’m an awful liar.’”
She looked up, her voice soft but firm. “It’s strange, isn’t it? To admit that much confusion and still sound so true.”

Jack: “Confusion?” He smirked, his grey eyes narrowing. “That’s not confusion, Jeeny. That’s survival. People reinvent themselves because the world doesn’t wait for consistency.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe they change because they’re honest enough to admit they’re never finished.”

Host: The record crackled, a low static like the sound of memory dissolving. Smoke curled from Jack’s cigarette, rising in lazy spirals above his head.

Jack: “Honesty? No, that’s just clever marketing. Bowie wasn’t confessing; he was constructing. Every time he changed, he made sure it meant something — a new persona, a new truth to sell.”

Jeeny: “And yet he never claimed those personas were truths, Jack. That’s the beauty of it. He exposed the lie of identity itself — that we have to be one thing forever. Maybe that’s why he said he’s an ‘awful liar.’ Because pretending to be one version of yourself is the real lie.”

Jack: “Nice poetry. But let’s not romanticize contradictions. The world doesn’t care if you’re fluid or fixed — it only believes what it can measure. Try telling your boss that you’ve changed your mind about your job halfway through a project. Or a politician who flips opinions every month — they don’t call that honesty; they call it weakness.”

Jeeny: “And yet the greatest minds in history did exactly that. Gandhi once said he wouldn’t hesitate to contradict himself if it meant finding a truer truth. Isn’t that courage — to change when new light arrives?”

Host: A car sped past outside, its headlights slicing through the rain. The light shimmered across the table, glinting off the bottle between them. Jeeny’s eyes caught that glint — fierce, alive.

Jack: “Courage? Maybe. Or indecision dressed up as philosophy. If you keep changing your mind, where’s your center? Where’s your spine?”

Jeeny: “Maybe the spine isn’t supposed to be rigid. Maybe it’s the kind that bends with the wind — and that’s what keeps it from breaking.”

Jack: “That sounds nice in poetry books. But in life, people need direction. You can’t drive a car if you keep switching lanes.”

Jeeny: “You can if the road keeps changing beneath you.”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened, his hand gripping the glass harder. The ice inside clinked — a small, sharp sound in the thick air. Jeeny leaned forward, her voice lowering, almost trembling.

Jeeny: “You’ve changed, too, Jack. You talk about logic and stability, but I’ve watched you question everything you believe in — faith, work, even love. You don’t stand still either. You just hide it behind your cynicism.”

Jack: “Don’t mistake evolution for contradiction. I adapt because I have to — not because I enjoy it.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe you understand Bowie better than you think. He didn’t change for fun; he changed to stay alive — spiritually, artistically. You adapt to survive. He adapted to stay real.”

Jack: “Real? He lived behind masks.”

Jeeny: “And you live behind armor. What’s the difference?”

Host: The bar fell silent except for the record’s last faint notes — a lingering echo of “Ch-ch-changes.” The bartender looked up, then away, sensing the tension that thickened the air.

Jack exhaled, smoke spilling from his lips like a confession he didn’t mean to make.

Jack: “Fine. Maybe we all wear masks. But at least I know mine. The world respects certainty, Jeeny. You can’t build a life on doubt.”

Jeeny: “But you can’t build a soul on denial either. Certainty is just a wall we hide behind when we’re scared of growing.”

Jack: “You call it growth; I call it self-erasure. How can you trust someone who’s constantly changing what they believe?”

Jeeny: “Because they’re alive. Because they’re still searching. People who stop changing have already stopped listening.”

Host: Her voice trembled, not from fear but from conviction. Jack’s eyes flickered — a rare hint of something soft behind the cold grey.

Jack: “You think truth is a moving target.”

Jeeny: “No. I think truth is a mirror that cracks each time we touch it. We keep picking up new pieces and trying to see ourselves in them.”

Jack: “Then how do you know when to stop — when to believe in something?”

Jeeny: “When the belief still makes you kind. When it doesn’t turn your heart into stone.”

Host: The rain outside grew heavier, a rhythmic drumming on the windows. Inside, their faces reflected faintly in the glass — blurred, imperfect, yet strangely united in that moment of uncertainty.

Jack: “You sound like you’d forgive anyone for inconsistency.”

Jeeny: “I’d forgive anyone who’s honest about it. You think lying means pretending to be good, but sometimes the real lie is pretending to be sure.”

Jack: “That’s a convenient excuse for indecision.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s an admission of humanity. Look around, Jack — the world is burning from people who were too certain. Leaders, nations, ideologies — they cling to one belief until it crushes everything in its way.”

Host: Her words hung heavy in the smoke, like a slow echo through the bar’s dim air. Jack’s brow furrowed, his eyes distant, as if her truth had reached a place he’d kept sealed.

Jack: “You make doubt sound like a virtue.”

Jeeny: “It is. Doubt is what keeps faith from turning into fanaticism.”

Jack: “And what keeps action from ever happening.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But I’d rather hesitate with a conscience than march forward blind.”

Host: Jack laughed, a low, tired sound that didn’t quite fit his face. He looked down at his drink, watching the amber liquid catch the light like liquid memory.

Jack: “You really think that kind of softness can survive in this world?”

Jeeny: “It already does. Every time someone admits they were wrong. Every time someone says, ‘I don’t know,’ and means it.”

Jack: “You sound like you believe uncertainty can save us.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s the only thing that can. Because uncertainty makes us listen — and that’s where truth begins.”

Host: The music changed — a softer tune now, slower, more intimate. Outside, the rain eased into a fine mist. Jack’s hand loosened around the glass, and for the first time, he looked directly at Jeeny — not to argue, but to understand.

Jack: “Maybe Bowie wasn’t an awful liar after all.”

Jeeny: “No. Maybe he was just honest enough to admit he didn’t have to be the same man every time he spoke.”

Jack: “So, we’re all liars then — just trying to tell a better truth next time.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The lie isn’t in changing. The lie is in pretending that we never do.”

Host: A faint smile curved on Jack’s lips, fragile but real. The record reached its end, the needle lifting with a gentle click. In the silence that followed, the bar seemed to breathe again — alive with the faint hum of shared understanding.

Outside, the city lights shimmered against the wet pavement, a thousand reflections shifting with every drop of rain — never the same, never fixed, always becoming.

Host: And as they sat in that quiet, two souls, opposite yet aligned, the truth of Bowie’s words settled between them — that to change one’s mind is not to lie, but to keep living. To be unfinished, unfinal, beautifully uncertain — like the music that fades, but never truly ends.