In life there are no problems, that is, objective and external

Host: The night train hummed softly through the dark Italian countryside — its low rhythm steady, hypnotic. Beyond the window, fields stretched into shadows, punctuated by the occasional light of a distant farmhouse. The air inside the compartment was warm, heavy with the scent of coffee, iron, and the faintest trace of rain that clung to their coats.

Host: Jack sat by the window, his reflection superimposed on the glass — two faces looking back at him: the one he lived with, and the one he hid behind. His eyes were tired, not from lack of sleep, but from carrying questions too long unanswered. Across from him, Jeeny sat quietly, a book open in her lap, her finger marking a page as though she wasn’t reading at all but thinking through the silence.

Host: The train rocked gently. Time, too, seemed to rock — backward and forward, between memory and moment.

Jeeny: (softly) “Alberto Moravia once said, ‘In life there are no problems, that is, objective and external choices; there is only the life which we do not resolve as a problem but which we live as an experience, whatever the final result may be.’”

Jack: (without looking up) “That’s beautiful. And impossible.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Why impossible?”

Jack: “Because people need problems, Jeeny. They make us feel like we’re fixing something. Like we’re in control.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s exactly what he meant — that our obsession with control is the illusion.”

Jack: “You’re saying life isn’t something to be solved?”

Jeeny: “No. It’s something to be lived. Even when it doesn’t make sense. Especially then.”

Host: The lights inside the train flickered briefly as it entered a tunnel. For a few seconds, their reflections merged completely — one human blur framed by darkness. When the light returned, their faces separated again, but the thought lingered between them.

Jack: “You ever notice how people use the word ‘problem’ like armor? ‘My problem is my job.’ ‘My problem is my past.’ As if naming it makes it smaller.”

Jeeny: “Or safer. A ‘problem’ can be solved, or ignored. But an experience? You have to feel that.”

Jack: “Feeling’s messy.”

Jeeny: “So is being alive.”

Host: The train whistle sounded in the distance — long, low, like the sigh of the earth itself. Jack rubbed his temples, watching his reflection fade and reappear with each passing signal light.

Jack: “When my marriage ended, I kept asking myself what the problem was. Was it me? Her? The timing? I built entire theories around it — dissected every moment like evidence.”

Jeeny: (quietly) “And what did you find?”

Jack: “Nothing. Just… life. Two people trying to live, failing at it, then surviving anyway.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it wasn’t a problem. Maybe it was an experience — one that ended.”

Jack: (bitterly) “That sounds like a nice way to decorate the ruins.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It’s the way to keep walking through them.”

Host: Silence. The train rolled on. Outside, the rain began again — gentle, rhythmic. The droplets traced the glass, merging, splitting, vanishing.

Jeeny: “Moravia wrote during a time when the world was obsessed with answers. War, politics, ideology — everyone wanted clarity. But he said: life isn’t a theorem. It’s a question you live inside.”

Jack: (half-smiling) “And yet, people like me keep trying to solve it.”

Jeeny: “Because you mistake uncertainty for failure.”

Jack: (turning toward her) “And you don’t?”

Jeeny: (after a pause) “I used to. But then I realized every time I solved one question, another was born. So I stopped hunting answers and started watching the patterns instead.”

Jack: “Patterns?”

Jeeny: “Yes. The way the same lessons keep repeating until you learn how to stop resisting them. Like seasons, not punishments.”

Host: Jack leaned back, folding his arms, his gaze drifting toward the window again. A small village flickered by — lights in the darkness, clustered like hope.

Jack: “So you think everything that happens — even pain — isn’t a problem?”

Jeeny: “It’s not a problem. It’s a teacher.”

Jack: “You talk like someone who’s made peace with pain.”

Jeeny: “Not peace. Partnership.”

Jack: (after a long silence) “That’s dangerous optimism.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s dangerous surrender. The kind that frees you.”

Host: The train slowed, its brakes hissing softly as it approached a small station. A few passengers stirred, gathering coats and bags. The overhead lights flickered again, momentarily illuminating dust in the air — tiny constellations caught between motion and rest.

Jack: “You know, when I was younger, I thought happiness meant winning — beating the odds, overcoming, achieving. But maybe it’s not about winning. Maybe it’s just… staying open.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Staying open when you have every reason to close.”

Jack: “That’s courage.”

Jeeny: “That’s living.”

Host: The doors opened briefly; cold air rushed in, smelling of rain and iron. A young woman stepped off, another boarded. Then the train moved again — forward, steady, certain in motion even if its passengers weren’t.

Jack: “You ever think about how much time we waste trying to define the meaning of our lives instead of living them?”

Jeeny: “That’s the trap. We treat life like a riddle — something we have to answer before it ends. But maybe the answer isn’t the point. Maybe the point is how we ask.”

Jack: “So what’s your question?”

Jeeny: “How much love can I give before I close? How much truth can I stand before I hide?”

Jack: (softly) “That’s a good question.”

Jeeny: “And you?”

Jack: (after a long pause) “How much of me can I forgive before I start again?”

Host: She smiled, a quiet, aching smile — the kind that carries both recognition and mercy. The train curved gently, the world outside shifting like film — blurred lights, fleeting faces, brief stories intersecting and vanishing.

Jeeny: “Then maybe Moravia was right. There are no problems — just lives unfolding. Some smoother than others. But all meant to be lived, not repaired.”

Jack: “And if living it hurts?”

Jeeny: “Then the pain is proof you’re still present.”

Host: The rain grew lighter, the sound against the window softening to a whisper. Jack closed his eyes briefly, exhaling — not relief, but release.

Jack: “You know what’s strange? I think I finally understand what he meant. Life isn’t about solving the storm. It’s about standing in it long enough to realize you are not the storm.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The lights in the compartment dimmed as the conductor walked past, checking tickets. The rhythm of the train steadied again — a heartbeat on rails.

Jeeny: “So stop calling your life a problem, Jack. Stop treating it like a puzzle with missing pieces.”

Jack: “Then what should I call it?”

Jeeny: “A story — in progress. One you don’t have to finish to make it meaningful.”

Host: Outside, dawn began to rise — faint and hesitant, but enough to color the clouds in shades of pink and silver. The rain had stopped.

Host: Jack looked at Jeeny, the corners of his mouth lifting just slightly.

Jack: “You know, for once, I don’t feel like fixing anything.”

Jeeny: “Good. Just live the chapter you’re in.”

Host: The camera panned wide — the train cutting through a gray landscape turning gold, smoke trailing behind it like a signature on time. Inside, two travelers sat in quiet understanding, the world moving around them, unsolved but beautiful.

Host: And as the train carried them forward, Alberto Moravia’s words lingered softly in the space between breath and motion:

Host: “In life there are no problems… only the life we live as experience, whatever the result may be.”

Host: Because to live is not to solve.
It is to feel, to try, to continue —
without turning existence into an equation,
but letting it remain what it was always meant to be — a journey without conclusion, but full of meaning.