I don't want to just love my family; I want to love all of

Host: The train station was dim in the early morning light — that grey hour before dawn when the world feels half-awake, half-dreaming. A low fog hugged the ground, drifting between the iron columns and flickering lamps. The air was heavy with the scent of coffee, rain, and departure.

Jack sat on a long wooden bench, hands folded, a small suitcase at his feet. His grey eyes stared at nothing in particular — that look of a man both exhausted and searching. Across from him, Jeeny leaned against a steel pillar, a paper cup in her hand, steam curling up into the cold. Her brown eyes were alert, thoughtful — the kind of eyes that never stop noticing humanity in motion.

Around them, the station pulsed with quiet stories: a young mother whispering to her child, an old man asleep on a bench, a couple arguing softly near the vending machines.

Jeeny: “Alejandro Jodorowsky once said, ‘I don’t want to just love my family; I want to love all of humanity.’”

Host: Jack looked up at her, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Jack: “He must’ve never spent a holiday dinner with mine.”

Jeeny: laughing softly “Maybe that’s why he aimed higher.”

Jack: “You think that’s possible? Loving everyone? Feels like trying to hug the ocean.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s not about scale. Maybe it’s about expanding your circle without drawing lines.”

Jack: “That sounds poetic. But in practice, people drain you. Everyone wants something.”

Jeeny: “And yet, we still need each other. That’s the paradox — the more you open your heart, the more it breaks, but also the more it heals.”

Host: The sound of a train rumbled in the distance — low, steady, like the heartbeat of the earth itself. The fog swirled around their feet.

Jack: “You really think love can stretch that far? To strangers? To people who don’t deserve it?”

Jeeny: “Who decides who deserves it?”

Jack: “Experience.”

Jeeny: “That’s not love, Jack. That’s accounting.”

Host: Jack leaned forward, elbows on his knees. The dim light caught the edge of his face — sharp, thoughtful, weary.

Jack: “I’m not saying Jodorowsky’s wrong. I’m saying it’s exhausting. Loving your family’s already a full-time job. Humanity’s... infinite overtime.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe love isn’t a job. Maybe it’s an atmosphere — something you carry with you. You don’t need to know everyone to care about them.”

Jack: “So compassion as a lifestyle.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Love that doesn’t need introductions.”

Host: The train arrived — steel shrieking softly against the tracks. A handful of passengers stood, gathering their bags. Jeeny didn’t move. She watched the people — really watched them — the way one studies stars through fog, knowing they’re there even when they can’t be seen.

Jeeny: “You know, I think what Jodorowsky meant wasn’t literal. He wasn’t saying, ‘Love everyone equally.’ He was saying, ‘Don’t stop your love where comfort ends.’”

Jack: “So love beyond tribe.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Beyond surname, flag, religion, skin. The human instinct is to shrink love to what’s familiar. He wanted to stretch it until it covered strangers.”

Jack: “Sounds beautiful. Also naive.”

Jeeny: “You think cynicism makes you wise, but it just makes you tired.”

Jack: smiling faintly “Touché.”

Host: The train hissed to a stop. The doors opened, and the platform filled with the soft shuffle of movement — feet, voices, life in motion.

Jack: “You know, there’s a danger in trying to love everyone. You start diluting the depth of love you can give to those close to you.”

Jeeny: “Not if you understand love as abundance, not a ration.”

Jack: “Abundance?”

Jeeny: “Yes. The more you give, the more you generate. It’s not water in a cup — it’s light. It doesn’t run out, it spreads.”

Host: Jack watched a little boy tug his mother’s hand toward a stray cat near the platform. The boy crouched, gently petting it, his small laughter cutting through the chill air.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. That’s love, too — the kind that doesn’t even think about it. Just happens.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The purest love is impulsive. It doesn’t check ID.”

Jack: smiling “But what about the people who hurt you? The ones who make it hard to believe in goodness?”

Jeeny: “That’s the test. To see them not as enemies, but as fractured reflections of yourself. It’s not forgiveness for their sake — it’s freedom for yours.”

Jack: “That’s... a tough kind of love.”

Jeeny: “The only kind that matters.”

Host: The conductor’s voice crackled over the intercom, announcing the next departure. The sound bounced off the high ceiling, fading into the mechanical hum of the station.

Jack: “You know, maybe Jodorowsky wasn’t talking about a feeling at all. Maybe he was talking about responsibility. To humanity.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Love as participation. As engagement. You don’t have to hold everyone — just stop turning away.”

Jack: “And that’s enough?”

Jeeny: “It’s where change starts. Every great act of peace, progress, or compassion began because someone refused to narrow their empathy.”

Host: The fog outside began to lift, the light growing brighter. The morning was finally coming alive — revealing faces more clearly, colors more vivid.

Jack: “You think we could ever get there? A world where people love beyond themselves?”

Jeeny: smiling softly “Not all at once. But one person at a time. Every time someone chooses connection over indifference, we inch closer.”

Jack: “Then maybe love isn’t a feeling — it’s momentum.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The quiet kind. The kind that changes everything without needing to be seen.”

Host: The whistle blew. Jack stood, picking up his suitcase.

Jeeny: “You leaving?”

Jack: “Yeah. Got somewhere to be. Someone to see.”

Jeeny: “Then love them — but don’t stop there.”

Jack: smiling “I won’t.”

Host: The train pulled away, its motion gentle, almost reverent. Jeeny remained on the platform, watching it disappear into the brightening horizon. Around her, the station filled again — strangers crossing paths, nodding, brushing shoulders, each carrying their own small universe.

And as the sunlight finally broke through the glass ceiling, Alejandro Jodorowsky’s words whispered through the air like a vow too old and too necessary to forget:

That love is not ownership — it is expansion.
That family is not a boundary — it is a beginning.
And that the heart’s true purpose
is not to guard its warmth,
but to spread it —
until even strangers feel like home.