I had spent many years pursuing excellence, because that is what

Host: The jazz bar was dim, its air thick with smoke and memory. A soft piano lingered in the background, slow, haunted, the kind of melody that seemed to remember more than it played. Red lights glowed against dark wooden walls, reflecting off half-empty glasses and the faint shine of a brass saxophone resting on its stand.

Host: Jack sat at the far end of the bar, his hands wrapped around a cup of black coffee, long gone cold. His eyes, gray and reflective, followed the slow curl of smoke rising from an ashtray beside him. Jeeny sat a few stools away, a glass of red wine untouched before her. The faint hum of the city beyond the windows was swallowed by the melancholy that hung in the air — the echo of something lost, or maybe found too late.

Host: On the small stage, a recording of Nina Simone played from the jukebox — “I Wish I Knew How It Would Feel to Be Free.” The notes filled the room like prayer.

Jeeny: (softly) “Nina once said, ‘I had spent many years pursuing excellence, because that is what classical music is all about... Now it was dedicated to freedom, and that was far more important.’”

Jack: (half-smiling) “Yeah. The day she stopped chasing perfection and started telling the truth.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. She realized excellence was obedience. Freedom was rebellion.”

Jack: “And rebellion made her dangerous.”

Host: The light flickered over their faces as the song played — her voice trembling between fury and grace, every word soaked in the cost of freedom.

Jeeny: “It’s funny, isn’t it? Perfection is supposed to elevate us. But for her, it became a cage.”

Jack: “Because perfection belongs to someone else’s standard. Freedom belongs to your own.”

Jeeny: “She’d spent her whole life mastering Bach, Chopin, Liszt — and then she turned around and said, ‘I’m done serving their language. I’ll play mine.’ That’s power.”

Jack: “Power, or exile. The moment she did that, the world loved her less. But she loved herself more.”

Host: A slow murmur rose from a few late-night patrons in the corner — laughter muffled by time and drink. The bartender polished glasses absently, listening to the music like it was gospel.

Jeeny: “You know what gets me about Nina? It wasn’t just her talent. It was the courage to lose everything for her truth. She turned her back on excellence to find her soul.”

Jack: “That’s the part nobody wants to talk about — how freedom always comes with a cost. She traded comfort for conscience.”

Jeeny: “She traded applause for honesty.”

Jack: “And once you’ve tasted honesty, applause feels like noise.”

Host: A silence fell between them, rich and alive. The music softened, the piano fading into a breath that barely touched the air.

Jeeny: “You ever think about that, Jack? About the difference between being good and being free?”

Jack: “All the time. Being good’s easy — you just follow the rules well enough to stay safe. Being free?” (he exhales) “That’s lonely. Because the moment you choose freedom, you stop belonging to anyone but yourself.”

Jeeny: “That’s why she left America, you know. She said she couldn’t breathe there anymore — that the applause had started to sound like chains.”

Jack: “Yeah. She went to Liberia. And they called her difficult. But she wasn’t difficult — she was done performing for people who couldn’t hear her pain.”

Host: The bartender turned up the music slightly. Nina’s voice rose through the haze: “I wish I could break all the chains holding me…” The words hung in the air, trembling like a confession.

Jeeny: “Excellence is about control. Freedom’s about release. The tragedy is — the world rewards the first and punishes the second.”

Jack: “You think she ever regretted it?”

Jeeny: “Regret? No. Pain, yes. You could hear it in every note. But regret? Never. She found what she’d been looking for — herself.”

Jack: “So you think freedom’s worth losing everything?”

Jeeny: “I think freedom’s the only thing worth losing everything for.”

Host: Her eyes shimmered in the low light — not from tears, but conviction. Jack studied her quietly, then turned his gaze to the jukebox where Nina’s voice carried like a spirit through the room.

Jack: “You know, when I was younger, I thought excellence was everything. That if you worked hard enough, polished every edge, maybe the world would finally see you.”

Jeeny: “And did it?”

Jack: “Yeah. But it saw what I made, not who I was.”

Jeeny: “That’s the curse of excellence — it demands you erase yourself to fit the shape of approval.”

Jack: “And freedom?”

Jeeny: “Freedom demands you survive being unapproved.”

Host: A long pause. The music swelled again, the final notes echoing across the bar. Outside, a car passed slowly through the wet street, its headlights carving temporary rivers of light through the darkness.

Jack: (quietly) “Nina once said that an artist’s duty is to reflect the times. That means she had to stop polishing her pain and start performing it.”

Jeeny: “And that’s when she became immortal.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “Funny how imperfection lasts longer than perfection.”

Jeeny: “Because perfection ends where truth begins.”

Host: The bartender turned the volume down again, leaving only the faint hum of conversation and the sound of rain against the glass.

Jack: “You ever feel that pull? Between what the world wants from you and what your soul’s asking for?”

Jeeny: (smiling sadly) “Every day. And every day I try to choose freedom, even if it costs me everything I built the day before.”

Jack: “That’s a hard way to live.”

Jeeny: “It’s the only honest way.”

Host: The lights dimmed even lower as the clock neared midnight. The world outside was a blur of reflections — streetlights bleeding into puddles, neon signs flickering like broken promises.

Jack: “You know, I think that’s what makes Nina eternal — not her voice, not her notes, but her choice. She chose truth when excellence wasn’t enough.”

Jeeny: “And by doing that, she set everyone else free, too.”

Host: The music started again — another of her songs, softer this time, almost whispered. The kind of melody that feels like it’s being played for someone sitting alone at a table, wrestling with the cost of honesty.

Jeeny: (after a long silence) “You know what freedom sounds like, Jack?”

Jack: (quietly) “What?”

Jeeny: “It sounds like a voice cracking in the middle of a song — and not stopping to apologize.”

Host: The camera lingered on the two of them — Jack and Jeeny — bathed in red light and reflection, their faces thoughtful, alive, changed.

Host: Outside, the rain began again, gentle and endless.

Host: And as Nina’s voice faded into the night, the truth lingered in the air like smoke:

Host: Excellence polishes. Freedom breaks.
Excellence impresses. Freedom liberates.

Host: And somewhere between those two — in the trembling space where art meets truth — Nina Simone still sings.