I think your ego gets in the way of making something good because

Host: The recording studio was dim, lit only by the red glow of the “ON AIR” sign and the soft halo from a desk lamp that spilled across tangled cables and open notebooks. The air smelled faintly of dust, coffee, and electricity — that peculiar mix of exhaustion and creation.

Through the glass window separating the booth from the soundboard, the city’s night lights shimmered faintly — cold and infinite, like applause that never quite arrives.

Jack sat on the edge of a low couch, guitar leaning against his leg, his posture heavy with unspoken things. Jeeny, perched beside the mixing console, leaned forward, elbows on her knees, her expression somewhere between affection and argument.

From the corner speaker, a voice faded out — a woman singing softly, every syllable soaked in melancholy. Jeeny hit the pause button, turned to Jack, and spoke quietly:

“I think your ego gets in the way of making something good because it kind of blinds you from the actual art.” — Mitski

Jack: (half-smiling) “Ah, Mitski. The artist’s confessor. She always says what we pretend not to know.”

Jeeny: “And you know she’s right. Ego ruins art faster than failure ever could.”

Jack: “Ego’s the reason we start, though. You don’t write songs, paint canvases, or chase applause without at least a little belief that you have something worth saying.”

Jeeny: “Belief isn’t ego. It’s the seed. Ego’s the weed that grows after.”

Jack: “That’s poetic, but idealistic. Every artist wants to matter. You think Van Gogh painted Starry Night for anonymity?”

Jeeny: “No. But he didn’t paint it for validation either. He painted because he had to — because the world inside him was louder than the one outside.”

Jack: “And that’s what you think I’ve forgotten?”

Jeeny: “I think you’ve mistaken attention for appreciation.”

Host: The lamp flickered slightly, the filament glowing like a tired heart. A drip of rain hit the glass outside, the rhythm syncing faintly with the ticking metronome left running on the console.

Jack: “You make it sound so easy. But try surviving in this industry without ego. It’s a jungle out there — full of mirrors and microphones. If you don’t shout your name, you disappear.”

Jeeny: “Maybe disappearing’s not the worst thing if the art stays. The ego wants immortality; the soul just wants truth.”

Jack: “Truth doesn’t pay rent.”

Jeeny: “Neither does delusion.”

Jack: “Harsh.”

Jeeny: “Necessary.”

Host: The rain picked up, a muted percussion against the glass. The city’s light cut through the water streaks like blurred stars. Jeeny leaned back, crossing her arms — her silhouette calm, almost sculptural.

Jeeny: “You know what ego does? It rewrites your motivation. You start out wanting to express something, but ego makes you want to impress someone. And then, somewhere in between, you lose the pulse.”

Jack: “You say that like it’s a moral failing.”

Jeeny: “It’s a blindness. Ego’s a filter — everything gets distorted through it. You stop hearing the song. You only hear yourself.”

Jack: “And you think you can create without yourself?”

Jeeny: “No, but the self has to serve the art, not smother it.”

Jack: “You talk like art’s sacred.”

Jeeny: “It is. Or at least, it used to be before it became content.”

Host: The metronome clicked steadily, the beat filling the silence between them — a small, mechanical heartbeat marking time they didn’t have.

Jack: “You know, when I was younger, I thought art was about honesty. But now it feels like survival. You make something, you release it, you pray it trends long enough to keep the lights on.”

Jeeny: “That’s not art. That’s commerce.”

Jack: “Tell that to the landlord.”

Jeeny: “I get it. But here’s the irony — the more you chase recognition, the more invisible you become. People start seeing your ego instead of your work.”

Jack: “So what, I’m supposed to be humble and broke?”

Jeeny: “No. Just real.”

Jack: “You think that’s still possible?”

Jeeny: “Yes. But only if you remember that every song, every line, every brushstroke — it’s not about you. It’s about what moves through you.”

Jack: “And what if I don’t feel anything moving anymore?”

Jeeny: “Then stop making noise. Be still. Art will find you again when you’re ready to listen.”

Host: The room dimmed further, the power flickering once as thunder rolled in the distance. The silence that followed was dense, thick with reflection. Jack stared down at his hands — paint, ink, guitar calluses, the residue of everything he’d ever tried to make last.

Jack: “You know, I used to write because it saved me. Somewhere along the line, I started writing because I wanted to be seen. I thought the difference didn’t matter. Turns out it’s everything.”

Jeeny: “That’s Mitski’s point. Ego makes you mistake being looked at for being understood. And the tragedy is — it’s the opposite of art.”

Jack: “Because art’s supposed to connect?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Ego isolates. Art unites. You can’t do both at once.”

Jack: “So what’s the cure?”

Jeeny: “Humility. Silence. Failure. They reset you.”

Jack: (smirking) “So the cure’s suffering.”

Jeeny: “Always has been. Every artist bleeds before they see clearly.”

Host: The lamp buzzed faintly, its glow steady again. The rain softened, leaving streaks of silver down the window. In the reflection, their faces blurred together — the cynic and the idealist, each carrying the same exhaustion, just wearing it differently.

Jack: “You ever wonder if ego’s the only thing keeping us alive? The only thing pushing us to create, even when no one’s listening?”

Jeeny: “Ego can start the fire, sure. But it can’t sustain it. Only love can.”

Jack: “Love of what?”

Jeeny: “Of the process. Of the mystery. Of giving shape to something that doesn’t belong to you but passes through you. That’s art.”

Jack: “And ego?”

Jeeny: “Ego wants to own it. To brand it. To make it yours when it never really was.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked once — that sharp, decisive sound that breaks reverie. The storm outside was easing, the air fresher now, as though the world had exhaled.

Jeeny: “You know what’s beautiful about Mitski’s words? It’s not just about art. It’s about life. Ego blinds you from everything — love, kindness, beauty. It makes you perform your existence instead of living it.”

Jack: “You think I’ve been performing?”

Jeeny: “I think we all have. The trick is remembering when to drop the act.”

Jack: (after a long pause) “And when we do?”

Jeeny: “That’s when the real song begins.”

Host: The metronome stopped, its sound cut by Jeeny’s hand. The silence that followed was whole — the kind that hums with truth.

Jack reached for his guitar, strummed a single chord, the note trembling in the air — imperfect, honest, alive.

Jeeny closed her eyes and listened.

And in that fragile moment, Mitski’s words lingered like a quiet revelation —

that ego is the veil between art and authenticity,
that creation isn’t conquest,
but communion;

and that true art —
the kind born from listening, not shouting —
isn’t about being seen,
but about seeing clearly,
if only for one trembling,
uncompromised note.