I have a wish. It as a fear as well - that in my end will be my

Host: The mountain air was thin, dry, and edged with silence. The Bolivian dawn was slow to arrive — a hesitant light spilling across the ridges, revealing the scattered mist and the red soil stained with history. The world below was asleep, but here, high in the hills, the ghosts of revolutions never rested.

A campfire smoldered low, its smoke curling into the cold morning air. The smell of ash and damp cloth hung like memory. Around it sat Jack, his hands rough, eyes shadowed, a notebook open on his knee. Beside him, Jeeny watched the embers fade, her breath visible, her voice low — as if afraid to wake the past.

Host: The fire crackled once, small but defiant — like the echo of an old ideology that refused to die quietly.

Jeeny: “You ever think about how strange it is — to die believing in something the world keeps misunderstanding?”

Jack: [staring into the fire] “Every man who fights for an idea ends up dying twice — once in body, once in myth.”

Jeeny: “Che Guevara said something haunting once — ‘I have a wish. It is a fear as well — that in my end will be my beginning.’”

Jack: “Yeah… I remember that. The paradox of immortality. The man feared becoming a symbol, yet he became one anyway.”

Jeeny: “Because symbols don’t die. They multiply.”

Jack: “And so do the mistakes that follow them.”

Host: The wind moved through the tall grass, soft and sorrowful, like a hymn hummed by invisible voices — the kind sung for men who became more dangerous after death than they ever were alive.

Jeeny: “Do you think he knew? That his death would ignite something larger than his life?”

Jack: “I think he hoped it wouldn’t. Martyrdom sounds noble until it happens to you.”

Jeeny: “But he wanted change — not survival.”

Jack: “Sure. But he was human first. He felt fear, hunger, regret. The world remembers his ideals but forgets his exhaustion.”

Jeeny: “You talk like you knew him.”

Jack: “Maybe I know his kind. People who dream too big to survive their own vision.”

Jeeny: “Like you?”

Jack: [smirks faintly] “Maybe like the part of me that still believes in lost causes.”

Host: The fire spat, a spark leaping skyward before vanishing — brief rebellion, brief light.

Jeeny: “It’s such a strange wish, though — to hope your end becomes your beginning.”

Jack: “It’s not strange. It’s universal. Every idealist hopes death isn’t the final punctuation mark — that something carries on, a sentence unfinished.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t that just vanity?”

Jack: “No. It’s legacy — the desperate kind. The kind born when you realize your life’s work won’t fit inside your lifetime.”

Jeeny: “So you plant ideas like seeds — knowing you’ll never see them bloom.”

Jack: “Exactly. And sometimes, those seeds grow into myths instead of truths.”

Jeeny: “You make myth sound dangerous.”

Jack: “It is. Myths forget the cost of reality.”

Host: The sky lightened slowly, turning gray to gold. A vulture glided overhead — silent, eternal, indifferent.

Jeeny: “Maybe Che’s fear wasn’t death. Maybe it was repetition.”

Jack: “What do you mean?”

Jeeny: “Maybe he feared that history would use his image, his words, his face — to start the same wars he wanted to end.”

Jack: “You’re right. His beginning wasn’t just hope. It was the next cycle of conflict.”

Jeeny: “So his fear came true.”

Jack: “Completely. Every rebel dies twice — once in the jungle, once on a T-shirt.”

Jeeny: [grimly] “That’s the tragedy of idealism — it gets sold back to the world as fashion.”

Jack: “And people wear it without feeling its weight.”

Host: The sun finally rose, its first rays touching the horizon, turning the smoke of the dying fire to gold. The moment felt holy, and cruel.

Jeeny: “You know, I envy people like him sometimes. To believe in something so much that you’d die for it.”

Jack: “You think that’s bravery?”

Jeeny: “Isn’t it?”

Jack: “No. It’s faith. Bravery is fighting despite doubt. Faith is dying because you never had any.”

Jeeny: “Then which is better?”

Jack: “Neither. Both burn you up. One just takes longer.”

Jeeny: “You’re cynical.”

Jack: “No. I’m tired. There’s a difference.”

Host: The flames flickered out, leaving only the glow of ash. The smoke spiraled upward — gray against the brightening sky — a quiet symbol of transformation and loss.

Jeeny: “You know, maybe he wasn’t wrong. Maybe the end is the beginning — just not in the way he thought.”

Jack: “How so?”

Jeeny: “Because death isn’t always about loss. Sometimes it’s the transfer of meaning — from one heart to another. Every time someone remembers him, or questions him, or argues about him — that’s his beginning again.”

Jack: “So immortality isn’t being remembered — it’s being reinterpreted.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Jack: “Then maybe he got what he feared and what he wanted — both at once.”

Jeeny: “And maybe that’s the curse of visionaries — they never really end.”

Jack: “Even when they should.”

Host: The wind shifted, scattering ash into the air, where it shimmered briefly before vanishing.

Jeeny: “You ever think about your own end, Jack?”

Jack: [quietly] “More than I’d like.”

Jeeny: “You fear it?”

Jack: “Not the dying. The disappearing.”

Jeeny: “You won’t disappear. People like you — thinkers, rebels — you leave echoes.”

Jack: “Echoes fade too, Jeeny. The only immortality worth having is in kindness — not revolution.”

Jeeny: “You really believe that?”

Jack: “I do now.”

Host: The sun climbed higher, the mist dissolving. What remained was clarity — harsh, brilliant, unforgiving.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what Che was really saying — that his end wasn’t the birth of legend, but of reflection. That others would start where he stopped.”

Jack: “Then his fear became prophecy.”

Jeeny: “But maybe that’s not tragedy — maybe it’s design.”

Jack: “You think fate works like that?”

Jeeny: “I think meaning does.”

Jack: “Then maybe all we ever do is light the next man’s torch.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. No fire lasts forever, but the flame does.”

Host: The ashes cooled, the last ember glowing faintly like a stubborn heartbeat refusing to die.

Because as Che Guevara said,
“I have a wish. It is a fear as well — that in my end will be my beginning.”

And as Jack and Jeeny sat beneath the waking sky,
they understood that some lives never conclude — they simply echo onward,
passing through time as both warning and hope.

Host: The wind rose once more,
carrying the last whisper of smoke into the sunrise —
a reminder that every ending
is just another name for becoming.