I love music passionately. And because I love it I try to free

Host:
The night air was thick with the hum of the river — low, eternal, almost orchestral. The studio overlooked the water, a vast open space filled with scattered instruments, stacks of sheet music, and the soft amber glow of a single lamp. Dust danced lazily in the light, each speck moving like a note suspended midair.

On the floor, cables coiled like sleeping serpents, and the faint scent of rosin, coffee, and old wood filled the air. In the corner, a piano stood open — its keys glinting like teeth, its lid reflecting the pale moonlight that spilled through the window.

Jack sat at the piano, his fingers resting just above the keys but not moving. His grey eyes were unfocused, caught somewhere between frustration and reverence. Across the room, Jeeny leaned against a wall, her arms crossed, a half-finished glass of wine in her hand. Her dark hair fell in uneven strands around her face — the look of someone who lived too long with her heart too close to sound.

On a yellowed scrap of paper atop the piano, in bold, inked handwriting, was the night’s obsession:

“I love music passionately. And because I love it I try to free it from barren traditions that stifle it.” — Claude Debussy

Jack:
(reading the quote aloud)
“Free it from barren traditions…” That’s rich, isn’t it? Everyone talks about breaking rules — but the rules are what make music possible.

Jeeny:
(smiling faintly)
No, Jack. The rules make noise tolerable. They don’t make music.

Jack:
Without structure, it’s chaos. Without tradition, there’s no lineage — no dialogue with the past.

Jeeny:
Maybe. But Debussy wasn’t talking about forgetting the past. He was talking about rescuing the future from it.

Jack:
You sound like every artist who mistakes rebellion for genius.

Jeeny:
And you sound like every artist who mistakes obedience for wisdom.

Host:
The wind outside picked up, whistling through a cracked window. The lamp flame trembled slightly, throwing their shadows against the wall — two forms caught mid-argument, like figures in a painting that refused to settle into peace.

Jack:
Debussy was a romantic, sure — but even he knew music is a craft. You can’t just throw away tradition because it feels old.

Jeeny:
(stepping closer)
But tradition isn’t sacred if it kills what it was built to serve. Look at him — he loved harmony, but he refused to let it cage emotion. He made rules bend to feeling, not the other way around.

Jack:
And now every second-rate composer uses that as an excuse for laziness. “I’m breaking the rules!” No, you’re just bad at them.

Jeeny:
Maybe they’re bad at your rules because they’re writing in another language — one you’ve forgotten how to hear.

Host:
A soft chord spilled from the piano — accidental, aching, alive. It lingered in the air longer than it should have, like a sigh that didn’t know where to end.

Jack:
(quietly)
You think you can love something and still destroy its boundaries?

Jeeny:
I think you have to. That’s what love does — it refuses to let the beloved grow stale.

Jack:
You talk like art’s a living thing.

Jeeny:
It is. And every time someone says “That’s not how it’s done,” another part of it dies.

Jack:
(pressing a key sharply)
Or maybe it’s saved. Discipline is what separates art from indulgence.

Jeeny:
(sitting on the floor)
And emotion is what saves it from suffocation.

Host:
The piano filled the silence — not music, not yet, just notes testing the air, as if Jack’s hands were arguing where his voice couldn’t. A few scattered melodies rose and fell, searching for meaning.

Jeeny watched him, her eyes softening, her voice quieter now.

Jeeny:
Do you know what Debussy said about music? He said it’s the space between the notes. That’s where the truth hides — not in the rules, not in the precision, but in the breath that happens before the next sound.

Jack:
(skeptical, but intrigued)
The space between… So what? Absence as structure?

Jeeny:
Presence as freedom.

Jack:
(leaning back, rubbing his temples)
You’re impossible.

Jeeny:
And you’re predictable. That’s worse.

Host:
The lamp flickered again, and now the only steady light came from the moon spilling across the keys. The sound of the river grew louder, its rhythm syncing with the faint tapping of Jack’s foot.

Jack:
You know what scares me, Jeeny? Every time someone tries to “free” music, it becomes something else entirely — abstraction, noise, a shadow of itself.

Jeeny:
And maybe that’s beautiful too. Why must every form cling to what it once was? Let it evolve — like language, like light.

Jack:
So you’d destroy it to save it?

Jeeny:
(smiling)
That’s love, isn’t it?

Host:
He stopped playing. For a long moment, only the river answered — endless, indifferent.

Jack:
You really think freedom and form can coexist?

Jeeny:
Of course. But not as enemies. Form is the skeleton. Freedom is the breath. Without one, you collapse; without the other, you’re just bones.

Jack:
(softly)
And Debussy… he was the breath.

Jeeny:
Exactly.

Host:
The piano came alive again — this time not as rebellion, but as revelation. Jack’s hands moved slower now, each note deliberate but tender. The sound floated through the room — soft dissonance meeting gentle beauty.

Jeeny closed her eyes.

Jeeny:
There it is. That’s what he meant. You’re still using the rules — but they don’t own you anymore.

Jack:
(half-smiling as he plays)
You think freedom sounds like this?

Jeeny:
No. It feels like this.

Host:
The river’s rhythm blended with the melody — an accidental duet between water and man. The lamplight flickered one last time, then went out completely. Only the moonlight remained, pure and indifferent, falling on their faces like absolution.

Jack:
Maybe you’re right. Maybe love isn’t obedience. Maybe it’s daring to change the thing you worship before it turns into a monument.

Jeeny:
(whispering)
And maybe tradition isn’t the enemy — just a song waiting to be sung differently.

Jack:
You think that’s what he wanted?

Jeeny:
No. I think that’s what he knew.

Host:
The final note hung in the air — a single, shimmering tone that refused to fade. Outside, the river flowed on, timeless, free.

Perhaps that was what Debussy meant all along —
that to love something truly is not to preserve it,
but to release it.

For passion that cannot transform becomes prison,
and tradition that cannot bend becomes tombstone.

And so the artist, like the lover, must always risk heresy —
not to destroy beauty, but to keep it alive.

Host:
The piano fell silent. Jeeny stood, crossed to the window, and opened it. The night air rushed in — cool, infinite, alive.

Jack smiled, fingers resting still on the keys.

Between them, the silence was not absence — it was music.

Fade out.