I define nothing. Not beauty, not patriotism. I take each thing

Host:
The diner was nearly empty, its chrome counters gleaming under flickering fluorescent lights. Outside, the desert stretched endlessly, the horizon a thin seam of fading gold against the indigo dusk. A jukebox in the corner hummed softly, the voice of an old blues song barely audible, like memory murmuring from a past life.

Jack sat in the booth near the window, a cup of coffee gone cold beside him. He wore that familiar look — one half cynicism, one half wonder. Across from him, Jeeny rested her chin on her hand, staring out at the long highway that cut through the dark. A single neon sign buzzed above them, spelling “OPEN” in stubborn red light, as if daring the night to argue.

Jeeny: “Bob Dylan once said — ‘I define nothing. Not beauty, not patriotism. I take each thing as it is, without prior rules about what it should be.’”
Jack: [smirking] “Of course he did. The man’s made a career out of confusing everyone who tried to define him.”
Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the point — definitions are cages.”
Jack: “No. Definitions are fences. They keep chaos from swallowing us.”
Jeeny: [turning to him] “But fences also keep us from touching what’s real.”
Jack: “Touching what’s real? Jeeny, if we didn’t define anything, the whole world would be noise.”
Jeeny: “Maybe it already is — and Dylan just learned how to hear the melody in it.”

Host:
The waitress passed by, refilling cups with the absentminded grace of someone who’d seen a thousand nights like this one. Steam rose from Jack’s mug again, curling between them like a ghostly punctuation mark.

Jack: “So what, he’s saying he doesn’t believe in categories? That sounds romantic until you have to live with it.”
Jeeny: “He’s not denying structure. He’s denying assumption. He’s saying, ‘Don’t meet the world with definitions. Meet it with eyes.’”
Jack: “That’s poetic. But the mind needs labels — it’s how we survive. You see fire, you define danger.”
Jeeny: “That’s instinct, not ideology. Dylan’s talking about perception — about how art and identity collapse when you start defining them before they’re lived.”
Jack: “So he’s saying meaning comes after, not before.”
Jeeny: “Exactly. Like writing a song — you don’t decide what it’s about until it’s done singing itself.”
Jack: [smiling faintly] “That’s chaos disguised as wisdom.”
Jeeny: [smiling back] “Or wisdom disguised as chaos.”

Host:
Outside, a truck thundered down the empty road, its headlights slicing through the desert dark. The jukebox clicked and changed songs — a Dylan tune, naturally — his gravel voice whispering through the diner like wind through a cracked window.

Jeeny: “You know what I love about that quote? It’s the opposite of ideology. Everyone wants to define everything — beauty, loyalty, love, country — as if pinning a word to something makes it true.”
Jack: “We need definitions to find common ground.”
Jeeny: “Or to create illusions of it.”
Jack: “That’s cynical.”
Jeeny: “No, it’s human. We name things because we’re afraid of mystery. Dylan just happens to be one of the few who made peace with it.”
Jack: “Peace with mystery? You make him sound like a monk with a harmonica.”
Jeeny: [grinning] “Maybe that’s exactly what he was.”

Host:
The lights flickered again, humming like a nervous thought. Jack drummed his fingers on the table, the rhythm slow, syncopated — half in time with the jukebox, half lost in his own orbit.

Jack: “So you think he really believed in taking things as they are? No filters, no interpretation?”
Jeeny: “Not no interpretation — just no preconception. He wanted to experience before judging.”
Jack: “That’s dangerous.”
Jeeny: “That’s alive.”
Jack: “But if you don’t define beauty, how do you know when you’ve found it?”
Jeeny: “You don’t. You just feel it — and that’s the point. Definitions flatten the feeling. Dylan’s saying beauty’s not a formula. It’s an encounter.”
Jack: [thoughtfully] “An encounter. Like a surprise you can’t repeat.”
Jeeny: “Exactly. And once you define it, it stops surprising you.”

Host:
A fly buzzed lazily around the light fixture, circling endlessly — a perfect metaphor for the mind chasing meaning. Jeeny leaned closer, her voice softer now, almost tender.

Jeeny: “You know, it’s kind of radical — to refuse to define. The world today demands clarity, certainty, sides. But Dylan... he lived in the blur.”
Jack: “Maybe because he didn’t trust anyone who claimed to have clarity.”
Jeeny: “Yes. Because clarity kills curiosity. Once you define beauty, you stop seeing new forms of it. Once you define patriotism, you stop asking what love of one’s country actually means.”
Jack: “So his rebellion wasn’t against systems. It was against conclusions.”
Jeeny: “Exactly. He didn’t want to be right. He wanted to be real.”
Jack: [nodding slowly] “That’s rarer than genius.”
Jeeny: [smiling faintly] “And lonelier.”

Host:
The clock above the counter ticked past midnight, its sound mingling with the hiss of the coffee machine. The waitress yawned, checked the empty register, and turned the radio down. The air smelled faintly of rain about to happen — the kind of stillness that invites introspection.

Jack: “You know, there’s a kind of mercy in what he said. To define nothing means you let everything be what it is — even people. No forcing, no fixing.”
Jeeny: “Yes. It’s acceptance without passivity. To take things as they are doesn’t mean you stop feeling. It means you stop projecting.”
Jack: “So maybe that’s freedom — not needing the world to fit our shapes.”
Jeeny: “That’s exactly it. We keep mistaking control for understanding.”
Jack: “And when we run out of definitions, we panic.”
Jeeny: “Because we’re forced to face the rawness of reality — and ourselves.”
Jack: “Maybe that’s why people keep trying to define Dylan. They can’t stand a mirror that doesn’t give answers.”
Jeeny: “And he never gave them — he just handed you the reflection and walked away.”

Host:
Thunder murmured in the distance, the desert sky shifting from deep blue to bruised violet. The neon sign flickered — “OPEN” becoming “PEN” for a second, as though the universe had a sense of humor.

Jack chuckled quietly, shaking his head.

Jack: “You know, I used to think he was evasive — always refusing to explain himself. Now I think he was protecting something sacred.”
Jeeny: “The mystery?”
Jack: “The authenticity. Once you define something, you owe it consistency. And consistency is the death of truth.”
Jeeny: [softly] “That’s beautiful.”
Jack: “That’s Dylan.”
Jeeny: “No — that’s human. We’re all contradictions trying to make poetry of it.”
Jack: “Maybe that’s why he said he defines nothing — because definition demands purity, and purity doesn’t exist.”
Jeeny: “Yes. The truest people are the ones who stay in motion.”

Host:
The first drops of rain hit the window, leaving streaks that caught the diner’s light and turned it into liquid silver. Jeeny watched them fall, her eyes distant, thoughtful. Jack took a long sip of coffee, now cold again, but it didn’t matter.

The jukebox finished its song. Silence settled in — heavy but kind.

Jeeny: “You know, maybe that’s what art really is — refusing to define, but daring to express anyway.”
Jack: “So art’s not the statement. It’s the attempt.”
Jeeny: “Yes. The attempt to live without a script.”
Jack: “That’s harder than it sounds.”
Jeeny: [smiling faintly] “That’s why so few do it.”
Jack: “And why we keep quoting the ones who did.”
Jeeny: “Like Dylan.”

Host:
The rain deepened, drumming steadily now, its rhythm syncing with the pulse of the neon sign. Outside, the highway shimmered under the wet light, endless and undefined.

Jack and Jeeny sat in silence, the world narrowing to the sound of rain, breath, and understanding.

And in that quiet,
the truth of Bob Dylan’s words shimmered —

that definition is a comfort,
but freedom is a risk.

That to live without preconception
is to meet the world raw,
to love beauty without naming it,
to witness truth without framing it.

For every definition is a wall,
and every wall hides what it claims to explain.

To define nothing,
as Dylan said,
is not emptiness —
it is faith in the fullness of experience.

It is the courage
to let the world be wild,
to let meaning be a song
that plays only once,
and never the same way twice.

And as the neon flickered
and the desert stretched infinite beyond the glass,
the jukebox came alive again —
a Dylan tune, of course —

a man’s voice rough as gravel,
soft as wind,
singing of freedom
no definition could contain.