I'm not a rich person financially, but I am in mind and soul. I

Host: The night hung heavy over the small recording studio, its walls covered in fading posters and vinyls that had seen more years than the instruments scattered across the floor. A single bulb buzzed above, flickering in rhythm with the faint hum of an amplifier. Outside, the rain whispered against the metal roof, a soft percussive beat that seemed to sync with something deeper — a heartbeat, an echo of time.

Jack sat by the mixing board, a cigarette between his fingers, the smoke curling upward like memory. His grey eyes followed the slow revolutions of a record spinning lazily, the needle lifting into silence.

Jeeny sat cross-legged on the floor beside a half-tuned guitar, her hair a black cascade over her shoulders, her fingers idly plucking a soft rhythm. Between them, taped to the console, lay a small quote written in faded ink — words from the roots-reggae legend Burning Spear:

"I'm not a rich person financially, but I am in mind and soul. I have so much energy and strength, and I can do a lot of things that make me, and I think my fans, quite happy. When everything's gone, music alone shall live on."

Jeeny: “You know, there’s something holy about that, Jack. To not measure wealth by what you own, but by what you can give.”

Jack: “Holy or naive — depends on how you look at it.”

Host: The light trembled, catching the edge of Jack’s face, the sharpness of his jaw softened by the smoke drifting upward.

Jeeny: “You’d call Burning Spear naive?”

Jack: “No. I’d call him rare. But the world doesn’t run on spirit, Jeeny. It runs on balance sheets and deadlines. Try paying rent with ‘soul wealth’ and see how far it gets you.”

Jeeny: “But he’s not talking about avoiding reality. He’s talking about surviving it. He’s saying — when all this fades — the music will still be here. That’s not ignorance, Jack. That’s freedom.”

Jack: “Freedom’s a nice word when you’re not counting pennies. The man’s a legend now — he can afford to talk like that.”

Jeeny: “No, he talked like that before he became a legend. That’s why he became one. You think roots reggae came from luxury? It came from struggle — from people who had nothing but rhythm to prove they were still alive.”

Host: Her voice rose slightly, tremulous but passionate. The rain outside thickened, as though answering her defiance.

Jack: “So you’re saying spirit can replace structure?”

Jeeny: “No. I’m saying structure collapses without spirit. Money can buy microphones, but not meaning. Wealth can build a studio, but it can’t make a song worth singing.”

Jack: “Meaning doesn’t feed you, Jeeny. I’ve seen too many artists burned out by their own purity — writing, performing, starving — all while the industry sells their soul to the highest bidder.”

Jeeny: “And yet… we still listen to them, don’t we? The ones who gave everything. Nina Simone. Bob Marley. Burning Spear. They’re gone, but their voices — their truths — are still breathing through speakers across the world. That’s what he means — when everything’s gone, music alone shall live on.”

Host: Jack leaned back, his eyes fixed on the silent record spinning before him. He flicked his ash into an empty cup, his voice a low hum of thought.

Jack: “I get it, Jeeny. I do. But you can’t eat legacy. You can’t feed your kids with immortality.”

Jeeny: “No, but you can feed souls with it. You can keep people alive in spirit. Isn’t that a kind of nourishment too?”

Jack: “Maybe. But the world rarely honors that kind of currency. Look at Van Gogh — died poor, painted priceless. Look at Billie Holiday — voice like gold, lived like rust. Spirit doesn’t save you from the system.”

Jeeny: “And yet it’s the only thing that outlives the system. The industry collapses, trends die, money fades — but songs? They outlast empires. Empires crumble, Jack, but a melody…”

Jack: “...a melody survives.”

Host: The words slipped from him before he could catch them, and for a moment the studio fell into a thick, almost reverent silence. The rain softened again, becoming a steady rhythm — like the heartbeat of something eternal.

Jeeny: “You just proved my point.”

Jack: “Don’t get smug.”

Jeeny: “I’m not smug. I’m hopeful. Maybe the world doesn’t pay for spirit, but it remembers it. That’s its own kind of wealth.”

Jack: “You sound like a preacher.”

Jeeny: “And you sound like someone who’s forgotten how to believe.”

Host: Jack’s jaw tensed, a flash of old pain crossing his face. He stared at the record — its slow, endless spin — and for a heartbeat, he seemed far away.

Jack: “You don’t know what it’s like, Jeeny. Watching your dreams traded for invoices. Music was supposed to save me. But all it did was cost me.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe you gave it the wrong currency.”

Jack: “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Jeeny: “Maybe you paid with ambition instead of love. Burning Spear wasn’t counting success in stadium lights — he was counting it in hearts moved. That’s a different kind of wealth, Jack. One the world can’t repossess.”

Host: Her words landed like quiet thunder. The room seemed to breathe — the faint buzz of the bulb, the whisper of the rain, the low hum of power still running through the soundboard.

Jack rubbed his eyes, then laughed softly, the sound brittle but real.

Jack: “You ever wonder what happens when the music stops?”

Jeeny: “It never stops. It just changes key.”

Jack: “And when we’re gone?”

Jeeny: “Then someone else picks up the tune.”

Host: She reached for the guitar beside her, her fingers tracing the strings with tenderness. The first note trembled in the air — raw, imperfect, but alive. Jack listened, his cynicism folding under the weight of that small, unguarded sound.

Jeeny: “That’s the thing about music — it doesn’t ask for permission. It doesn’t need wealth or fame. It just is. It carries the soul when the body’s too tired to stand.”

Jack: “And when the soul is tired?”

Jeeny: “Then music reminds it how to rise.”

Host: She began to play — slow, patient chords that filled the room with warmth. The sound moved through the dust, across the old equipment, into the air like smoke finding its way to heaven.

Jack closed his eyes, the lines of tension in his face softening.

Jack: “You know, I used to believe in this. Back when I thought songs could change something. Maybe I was wrong to stop.”

Jeeny: “Maybe you just needed to listen again.”

Host: The record on the player stopped spinning. The needle lifted with a faint click — silence following, pure and complete.

But in that silence, Jeeny’s music lived on.

Her voice, low and rough with emotion, joined the guitar.

Jeeny: “When everything’s gone, Jack… when the lights fade, and the applause ends — what do you think remains?”

Jack: “The echo.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And in that echo — the soul survives.”

Host: The rain subsided into a fine mist. The city outside exhaled, the hum of the world returning — soft, endless, alive.

Jack reached for the record again, flipping it, lowering the needle gently onto the groove. The familiar crackle filled the air — like an old friend clearing their throat before speaking.

As the first chords rose, he smiled — small, genuine.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny… maybe wealth isn’t in what lasts, but in what keeps returning.”

Jeeny: “And music always returns.”

Host: The light dimmed. The melody lingered.

In the small, humble room, filled with nothing but sound and faith, they sat — two souls not rich by the world’s standards, but rich in something deeper: energy, strength, and the shared understanding that when all is stripped away, when everything burns down to silence —

music alone shall live on.

And through that silence, the soul kept singing.