If being an egomaniac means I believe in what I do and in my art

Host: The night pressed heavy against the windows of a recording studio, its glass panes reflecting streaks of neon blue and amber light. The hum of a forgotten amplifier filled the air, low and steady like a distant heartbeat. In the corner, a vinyl spun slowly, whispering a faint melody — one of those songs that feel like memory more than sound.

Jack sat on the edge of the mixing desk, a cigarette glowing faintly between his fingers, the smoke curling like a question he wasn’t sure he wanted to ask. Jeeny stood by the window, her silhouette framed by the city’s pulse, her reflection fractured across the glass.

Between them, a quote echoed, timeless and unapologetic:

“If being an egomaniac means I believe in what I do and in my art or music, then in that respect you can call me that... I believe in what I do, and I’ll say it.” — John Lennon

Jack: smirking faintly “Classic Lennon. Confidence dressed up as humility. He makes ego sound like a virtue.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is — when it’s honest. The world loves to see people doubt themselves. But the moment someone stands tall in their truth, we call them arrogant.”

Host: The lights flickered, and the record hissed softly as it spun — a small, imperfect symphony of dust and devotion. Jack exhaled a stream of smoke, the cloud catching the light like a small storm above his head.

Jack: “Come on, Jeeny. There’s a difference between belief and delusion. Between conviction and narcissism. Lennon wasn’t just confident — he was obsessed with himself.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe he was obsessed with expression. There’s a difference. He didn’t say he was perfect; he said he believed in what he created. Isn’t that what art is — the courage to stand by your own voice, even when the crowd boos?”

Jack: “Courage? Or vanity? The same fire that fuels creation also burns humility. Artists like Lennon, Kanye, Picasso — they start believing they are the art.”

Jeeny: “And yet, without that fire, the world would be colder. You think Imagine could’ve been written by someone meek? You think the Beatles could’ve changed music without that dangerous confidence?”

Host: Her voice trembled — not with anger, but with reverence. The moonlight slid down the glass, catching her eyes, turning them into soft, molten amber. Jack looked at her for a moment — like a man staring at something he couldn’t refute, yet couldn’t surrender to.

Jack: “You romanticize ego. You forget that same ego destroyed the Beatles. It divides as much as it creates. Belief without self-awareness becomes tyranny.”

Jeeny: “But doubt kills faster than tyranny ever could. You think the world was changed by the cautious ones? By people who apologized for believing in their work?”

Jack: “The world was built by those who doubted — who questioned themselves, who feared they might be wrong. Lennon’s confidence is rare, yes, but dangerous. It blinds you to your own fallibility.”

Jeeny: softly, smiling “And fear blinds you to your own potential.”

Host: The studio lights dimmed to a low orange glow, and the silence between them thickened, heavy but alive. The record skipped slightly, repeating the same two notes — over and over — like a heartbeat insisting on being heard.

Jack: “Tell me something, Jeeny. Where’s the line between belief and arrogance? When does ‘I believe in what I do’ turn into ‘I’m better than everyone else’?”

Jeeny: “The line isn’t in the words, Jack — it’s in the intention. Arrogance says, ‘I’m the only one who matters.’ Belief says, ‘What I do matters, and I won’t let the world shrink it.’”

Jack: “You think Lennon cared about that distinction? He once said the Beatles were more popular than Jesus.”

Jeeny: “He said it to provoke, to mirror society’s obsession — and he was right. That’s the thing about truth: when it comes from someone who refuses to whisper, people call it ego.”

Host: Jack stubbed out his cigarette, the ash scattering like tiny comets. His eyes darkened, not from anger but thought. The room felt smaller, filled with the ghosts of every artist who’d ever believed too loudly.

Jack: “So you think belief excuses arrogance.”

Jeeny: “No. I think authenticity redeems it. If your art comes from something real — pain, joy, love — then belief isn’t arrogance. It’s loyalty to your own truth.”

Jack: “That’s poetic. But self-belief also kills empathy. Look at modern celebrities — they’re so in love with their reflection they forget there’s a world beyond the mirror.”

Jeeny: “But that mirror, Jack, is how they survive. The world builds them up, then tears them down. They need belief like oxygen. Lennon wasn’t arrogant for saying he believed — he was defiant in a world that demands apology for passion.”

Host: The wind outside howled through the narrow alley, rattling a loose sign. Inside, the music swelled faintly from the record player — a soft echo of Lennon's voice, ghostly and pure, like a confession sung across time.

Jack: “You sound like you’d rather worship ego than humility.”

Jeeny: “No. I’d rather balance them. Humility without self-worth becomes silence. Ego without empathy becomes noise. But belief — belief is the bridge.”

Jack: “So you think self-belief is a moral duty?”

Jeeny: “I think it’s a spiritual one. Every artist, every human, owes it to themselves to believe — because doubt doesn’t just kill art, it kills the soul.”

Host: The rain began again, faint at first — then steadier, rhythmic, washing the city in thin silver lines. Jack stood, walking toward the window, his reflection merging with hers.

Jack: “You know, maybe I envy that. I used to write music. Years ago. But I stopped — thought I wasn’t good enough.”

Jeeny: turning toward him “And who told you that?”

Jack: “Everyone. Myself, mostly.”

Jeeny: “Then Lennon’s words are for you too. Believing in what you do doesn’t make you an egomaniac — it makes you alive.”

Host: He looked at her, and for the first time that night, his face softened. The rainlight traced a faint glow across his grey eyes, revealing something long buried — a kind of forgotten hunger.

Jack: “Maybe belief isn’t arrogance. Maybe it’s survival.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The truest ego isn’t loud — it’s persistent. It’s the voice that says, I still matter, even when the world forgets.”

Host: The record reached its end with a soft click, and the silence that followed was heavier than sound. Jack walked to the player, lifted the needle, and smiled faintly — a man rediscovering something fragile and sacred within himself.

Jack: “You think Lennon ever doubted?”

Jeeny: “Of course. That’s why he believed so fiercely. People who shout their truth are often the ones fighting their own silence.”

Host: The city lights blurred outside, glowing through the rain like trembling notes on an unfinished score. Jeeny stepped closer, her hand resting briefly on Jack’s arm, grounding him in the moment.

Jeeny: “Maybe the real lesson isn’t whether he was an egomaniac or not. Maybe it’s this — that you can’t create something honest while hiding from yourself.”

Jack: “And you can’t hide forever.”

Host: The record spun again, and a soft melody filled the room — the first track Jack had written years ago, long before he gave up. It played through the static, imperfect, but still beautiful.

Jeeny smiled — quiet, luminous, like someone watching a long-closed door creak open.

Jack: whispering “I believe in what I do… I’ll say it.”

Host: The words hung in the air, small and defiant — an echo of Lennon’s own courage, reborn in another soul. The rain slowed. The lights dimmed.

And as the night stretched on, belief — raw, imperfect, and utterly human — became the truest sound in the room.