If you are living a life that feels right to you, if you're

Host: The studio smelled of paint, dust, and coffee gone cold. The last bit of sunlight slanted through a cracked window, spilling across the concrete floor in tired stripes. On the far wall hung half-finished canvases—colors clashing, figures emerging, secrets still becoming.

Jeeny stood by the largest painting, her small hands smudged with blue and ochre, her eyes alive with fatigue and fire. Jack leaned against the doorframe, coat still on, his grey eyes following her movements like a skeptic watching a miracle he’s not sure he believes in.

Outside, the city hummed—a low, constant heartbeat of ambition and noise—but inside, the air was hushed, the kind of quiet only artrooms know.

Jack: “You’ve been at it for twelve hours straight. You ever stop to ask what you’re chasing?”

Jeeny: (without looking at him) “Truth.”

Jack: “Truth? That’s a tall word for a few brushstrokes.”

Jeeny: “You don’t understand. It’s not about what I paint—it’s about how I live while I’m painting. Tracy Chapman once said, ‘If you’re living a life that feels right to you, if you’re willing to take creative chances that keep with your sensibilities, then that’s what matters.’ I think that’s it. Living as art. Not just making it.”

Host: The light dimmed as a cloud passed, muting the colors on the wall. Jack walked closer, his boots echoing softly on the floor, his shadow folding into hers.

Jack: “That sounds nice. But living a life that ‘feels right’—that’s the luxury of people who can afford to fail. Most of us don’t have the privilege of chasing creative chances. We chase rent.”

Jeeny: (turns sharply, paintbrush still in hand) “And maybe that’s why the world’s starving, Jack. Not for food—for meaning. Everyone’s trading their essence for safety.”

Jack: “Safety’s not a crime.”

Jeeny: “No. But fear is. And most people call fear practicality.”

Host: The studio light buzzed softly overhead. A single drop of paint fell from Jeeny’s brush onto the floor, spreading like a slow heartbeat.

Jack: “So you think art saves you from fear?”

Jeeny: “No. I think art names it. I think it takes fear and turns it into something visible—something you can confront. When I paint, I’m not trying to escape the world. I’m trying to translate it into something I can stand to look at.”

Jack: “You’re romanticizing struggle.”

Jeeny: “And you’re sterilizing it.”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened, his voice lowering. The kind of tone that comes not from anger, but from a wound that still remembers its shape.

Jack: “You talk like freedom’s easy. But life doesn’t wait for your aesthetic. People do what they must. I worked in a factory for five years—same shift, same walls, same noise. You think I didn’t want to take a ‘creative path’? I just didn’t have one.”

Jeeny: (softly) “You did. You just stopped looking.”

Jack: (bitter laugh) “Easy to say from your canvas kingdom.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. I mean it. Creativity isn’t a job title—it’s a state of being. You could’ve found poetry in the rhythm of machines, in the dust, in the faces you saw every day. Art isn’t about escape. It’s about awareness.”

Host: Her voice trembled with conviction, like a chord pulled taut but unbroken. The air felt electric now, heavy with something between fight and revelation.

Jack: “You think awareness pays the bills?”

Jeeny: “No. But it pays the soul. And if you never feed that part of yourself, you’re already bankrupt.”

Host: The sun broke through again, filling the room with a warm light that turned even the spilled paint into gold. Jack stared at the wall of unfinished works—the chaos of color that somehow made sense only to her—and he felt a quiet ache in his chest.

Jack: “So you really believe what Chapman said? That it’s enough to live a life that feels right to you?”

Jeeny: “I do. Because no one else can define right for me. Every compromise chips away at the truth I’m supposed to live.”

Jack: “You talk like the world will forgive you for that kind of selfishness.”

Jeeny: (smiles faintly) “Maybe it won’t. But I will.”

Host: The sound of the city seeped faintly through the window—a siren, a honk, a laugh carried by the wind. The world outside was impatient, but inside, time had slowed to the pace of breathing.

Jack: “You ever think maybe that’s why so many artists end up lonely? They live by their own compass, and no one else can read it.”

Jeeny: “Maybe loneliness is the price of authenticity. But I’d rather be alone in truth than surrounded by applause for a life that isn’t mine.”

Jack: “You make it sound noble. But it’s not easy.”

Jeeny: “Nothing true ever is.”

Host: The room seemed smaller now, the walls closer, filled with the hum of unspoken things.

Jeeny: “You know what frightens me most, Jack? It’s not failure—it’s waking up one day realizing I’ve been living someone else’s version of right.”

Jack: “And what if your version leaves you with nothing?”

Jeeny: “Then at least it’ll be my nothing. And that’s still something.”

Host: Jack looked at her, long and hard. His eyes softened—not surrender, but recognition. The kind of understanding that doesn’t come from agreement, but from respect.

Jack: “Maybe that’s what I envy about artists. You people make peace with uncertainty. The rest of us try to cage it.”

Jeeny: “And what’s inside that cage, Jack?”

Jack: “Routine. Regret. Comfort that tastes like decay.”

Host: The words hung between them like the smell of turpentine—sharp, cleansing. Jeeny turned back to her canvas, dragging a streak of crimson across the gray.

Jeeny: “There. That’s what living feels like. Messy. Honest. Imperfect. But mine.”

Jack: “You’re sure that’s enough?”

Jeeny: (turns, smiling) “It’s everything.”

Host: The light outside faded into dusk, and the studio filled with the glow of one small lamp, its circle of light pooling over the canvas like a benediction.

Jack walked toward the door, paused, and glanced back once more at the explosion of color that only minutes ago he might have dismissed as chaos.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe the only thing worse than failing at your own life is succeeding at someone else’s.”

Jeeny: “Now that’s art.”

Host: He smiled—quietly, privately—and left.

Jeeny stood alone in the silence, staring at her work. She reached out, touched the wet paint, and left a fingerprint right at the center. A mark that said, I was here.

Outside, the city roared on, indifferent.

Inside, one small studio pulsed with light — a testament to the fragile, fierce truth Tracy Chapman had named:

that to live a life that feels right is itself the bravest creation.