I think it has other roots, has to do, in part, with a general

Host: The sky burned violet over the city, a restless dusk heavy with noise — sirens, engines, voices, and silence between them all. The neon lights flickered against the wet pavement, reflecting the pulse of a world trying too hard to stay awake. Inside a small, dimly lit bar near the edge of downtown, Jack and Jeeny sat opposite each other in a cracked leather booth, half-empty glasses between them, the scent of whiskey, coffee, and rain-soaked asphalt mixing in the air.

A single TV glowed above the counter, its volume low, cycling through headlines — inequality, climate warnings, distant wars, and scandals dressed as entertainment.

Host: It was the kind of night where even hope seemed to smoke in the corners, waiting to be noticed but never called over.

Jeeny: [staring at the TV] “It’s like watching the same story on loop — just different faces, different disasters.”

Jack: [without looking up] “Because it is the same story. The cast just changes costumes.”

Jeeny: “You sound exhausted, not just cynical.”

Jack: “Maybe both. Or maybe I’m just finally seeing the world for what it is — a machine built on imbalance.”

Jeeny: “Leonard Baskin said something like that once. ‘I think it has other roots, has to do, in part, with a general anxiety in contemporary life... nuclear bombs, inequality of possibility and chance, inequality of goods allotted to us, a kind of general racist, unjust attitude that is pervasive.’”

Jack: [smirks] “And he said that decades ago. Imagine what he’d say now — the bombs are smaller, but the fear’s bigger.”

Host: The bartender wiped the counter, the glass squeaking sharply, punctuating the tension hanging between them like a thread stretched too thin.

Jeeny: “He was talking about anxiety — not despair. About how art reflects that unease, not just the ugliness.”

Jack: “Art doesn’t fix ugliness, Jeeny. It just names it better.”

Jeeny: “Sometimes naming a wound helps it heal.”

Jack: [leaning forward] “You think anyone’s healing? We’ve got kids scrolling through catastrophes before breakfast, entire countries burning while influencers dance in front of it. Anxiety isn’t reflection — it’s paralysis.”

Jeeny: “You’re mixing sickness with sensitivity. Anxiety isn’t weakness; it’s awareness. It’s the pulse of empathy in an age that rewards numbness.”

Jack: [quietly] “Empathy doesn’t pay rent.”

Jeeny: [sharply] “Neither does cynicism.”

Host: The rain outside intensified, streaking the glass, each drop reflecting a fractured piece of light — like small truths falling too fast to hold.

Jack: “You really believe empathy can survive this world?”

Jeeny: “It has to. It’s the only rebellion left.”

Jack: “Rebellion? Against what?”

Jeeny: “Against indifference. Against the idea that everything’s transactional — even our pain.”

Jack: [snorts] “Everything is transactional. You think anyone’s kind without a reason? Even charities need tax write-offs.”

Jeeny: [leaning back, voice low] “You don’t do it for reason. You do it because not doing it feels like dying a little.”

Jack: “And what’s that get you? Another headline about a hero gone viral? Another fleeting applause?”

Jeeny: “It gets you dignity, Jack. That’s all that’s left when everything else rots.”

Host: The bartender turned off the TV, and suddenly, the silence was deafening — an empty stage where their words echoed like footsteps in an abandoned church.

Jack: “You talk like the world can be fixed by feeling.”

Jeeny: “And you talk like it can’t be fixed at all.”

Jack: “Maybe it can’t. Maybe we’re just living in the aftermath of human ambition. Nuclear bombs, systemic racism, the myth of equality — Baskin wasn’t predicting; he was diagnosing. And the patient didn’t make it.”

Jeeny: [eyes narrowing] “You think it’s dead? Humanity?”

Jack: “Not dead. Just… sedated. Distracted by comfort and self-preservation.”

Jeeny: “You always say that as if comfort is a crime.”

Jack: “When comfort blinds you to suffering, it is.”

Jeeny: [whispers] “Then maybe discomfort is the only honest state of being.”

Host: The clock above the bar ticked softly, its hands dragging through time like weary travelers refusing to stop.

Jeeny: “You know what I think? Baskin wasn’t lamenting the world — he was reminding it to look in the mirror. Anxiety isn’t decay; it’s conscience. It’s proof that somewhere inside all this chaos, people still care.”

Jack: [tilting his head] “Care doesn’t dismantle bombs.”

Jeeny: “No. But indifference builds them.”

Jack: [pauses, exhaling slowly] “So what do you do? Cry harder? Pray louder? Paint something bleeding red and call it justice?”

Jeeny: “You do something. You write, you build, you resist. Every act of awareness fights the rot.”

Jack: [bitterly] “And yet the rot keeps growing.”

Jeeny: “Because people like you keep feeding it despair instead of light.”

Host: The air thickened, words striking like sparks off wet stone — heat in a place where everything else felt cold.

Jack: [voice rising] “You think optimism is light? It’s a candle in a hurricane, Jeeny! You want to talk about anxiety? Try living with the knowledge that everything we build is temporary, every peace negotiable, every truth disposable!”

Jeeny: [matching his tone] “Then stop treating temporariness as futility! Nothing lasts — not joy, not pain — but that doesn’t make them meaningless!”

Jack: [angrily] “It makes them fragile!”

Jeeny: [softly] “And that’s why they matter.”

Host: The rain slowed, leaving streaks across the window that looked like veins — the city’s pulse visible, faint but still alive.

Jeeny: [quiet now] “Maybe Baskin was afraid, like all of us. But fear can sharpen you, make you see clearer. It’s not the anxiety that kills us — it’s the refusal to face what causes it.”

Jack: [sits back, drained] “You really believe facing it changes anything?”

Jeeny: “It’s the only thing that ever has. Look at history — civil rights, nuclear disarmament, art that exposed injustice — every movement started because someone refused to look away.”

Jack: “And every one of them got crushed or co-opted.”

Jeeny: “Not crushed. Transformed. Progress isn’t permanent — it’s practiced.”

Host: The lights dimmed further, the bar now a cocoon of gold and shadow, two faces lit by conviction and fatigue — like candles still daring to burn.

Jack: [after a long silence] “You really think we can build something better on the ruins?”

Jeeny: “We already are. Every time someone admits their fear, their guilt, their complicity — that’s foundation work.”

Jack: [slowly nods] “So anxiety as awareness. Fear as blueprint.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The cracks in the wall don’t just show weakness — they let the light in.”

Jack: [smiles faintly] “That’s dangerously poetic.”

Jeeny: “So is survival.”

Host: The rain stopped, leaving the windows fogged, the city lights blurred beyond — as if the world had exhaled and, for a moment, forgiven itself.

Jack: [softly] “Maybe you’re right. Maybe anxiety’s not the sickness — maybe it’s the symptom of a conscience we haven’t killed yet.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It means we’re still capable of feeling what’s wrong — even if we can’t fix it all.”

Jack: “And art?”

Jeeny: “Art is the confession of that feeling. The record of our awareness. The reminder that we were trying.”

Jack: [nodding slowly] “Then maybe Baskin wasn’t warning us. Maybe he was praying for us.”

Jeeny: “Prayers can take the shape of sentences.”

Host: The streetlight outside flickered, the color shifting from white to amber — a softer hue, a quieter kind of truth.

Because as Leonard Baskin said,
“It has to do, in part, with a general anxiety in contemporary life... nuclear bombs, inequality of possibility, a general racist, unjust attitude that is pervasive.”

And as Jack and Jeeny sat beneath the hum of fading light,
they understood that anxiety was not weakness, but awareness —
a heartbeat within the chaos,
reminding humanity it still felt,
still noticed,
still cared.

Host: Outside, the rain began again — softly this time —
less like sorrow, more like memory.