In politics, what begins in fear usually ends in failure.

Host: The wind screamed through the narrow streets, carrying with it the smell of smoke, rain, and iron. A lonely flag flapped on a rusted pole outside the old city hall, its fabric torn, its colors fading into the night. Inside, the building was quiet — too quiet — its hallways echoing with the ghosts of debates and promises long abandoned.

In one of the dim chambers, lit only by the flickering flame of a single lamp, Jack sat at a mahogany table, his coat damp, his eyes heavy. Across from him, Jeeny stood near the cracked window, staring out at the city lights trembling in the distance.

Host: It was late. Too late for reason, too early for hope. Between them lay a silence filled with questions neither had the courage to ask — until Jeeny broke it with the weight of an old truth.

Jeeny: (softly) “Samuel Taylor Coleridge once said, ‘In politics, what begins in fear usually ends in failure.’”
She turned, her face pale in the light, her voice sharp as glass. “Do you believe that, Jack?”

Jack: (without looking up) “Fear keeps people alive. It’s what stops the fool from touching the fire, or the soldier from running blind into bullets. Maybe politics needs a little fear to keep it sane.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Fear keeps people small. It builds walls and calls them safety. It whispers lies and calls them leadership.”

Host: The lamp flame flickered, dancing between them like a restless spirit, illuminating the dust in the air — the residue of a thousand failed revolutions.

Jack: (raising his head) “And what do you call politics without fear? Naïveté? Look at the world, Jeeny. Leaders rise not because they inspire, but because they scare people into obedience. Fear works — always has.”

Jeeny: (fierce) “Fear works, yes — but only for tyrants. For everyone else, it corrodes from within. It breeds cowardice and calls it pragmatism.”

Jack: “Pragmatism wins elections.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But it loses souls.”

Host: The rain outside intensified, a chorus of drums on the roof. Lightning split the sky, flashing across their faces — his lined with cynicism, hers glowing with conviction.

Jeeny: “You remember 1933? Hitler’s Germany? Everything began in fear — fear of poverty, of outsiders, of change. And it ended in ash. That’s what Coleridge meant. Fear builds monsters out of men.”

Jack: “And yet, Jeeny, fear also built armies to stop those monsters. Fear can protect as much as it destroys. People move when they’re afraid — it’s motivation, not damnation.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. That wasn’t fear — that was courage born in spite of fear. There’s a difference. Fear is the spark; courage is the flame. Politics built on fear burns down everything it touches.”

Host: A long pause. The lamp hummed. The storm howled through the cracks in the walls, like a wounded animal circling its own pain.

Jack: (lowly) “You talk about courage as if it’s free. But courage costs blood. Fear keeps peace. You can’t run a nation on dreams.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the nation’s dream has already been sold.”

Host: She moved closer, her steps slow, her shadow crossing the table like a veil.

Jeeny: “You think stability built on fear is peace? It’s just control wearing a smile. Look at any empire — Rome, the British crown, the Cold War. Fear ruled them all. And each one rotted from the inside.”

Jack: (bitter laugh) “Idealism suits you, Jeeny. But people don’t want freedom; they want certainty. A fearful government gives them that illusion.”

Jeeny: “Illusion doesn’t feed justice. It only numbs it.”

Host: The air between them thickened — part tension, part unspoken history. Jack rose from his chair, pacing slowly, his footsteps echoing against the marble floor.

Jack: “You think love and poetry can govern nations? Fear is a tool — and tools aren’t evil, only their wielders.”

Jeeny: “And what happens when the wielder becomes addicted to that tool? When the ruler who once feared war starts fearing his own people?”

Jack: (quietly) “Then he falls.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Fear devours the one who feeds it.”

Host: Thunder rolled like judgment through the sky, vibrating the glass. The lamp flame danced violently, as though even light was afraid to stay.

Jeeny: “Coleridge was warning us — that when fear becomes the foundation of policy, it builds a house that collapses under its own shadow.”

Jack: “And yet every politician begins there. Fear of losing power, fear of being wrong, fear of not being remembered. It’s the invisible constitution behind every democracy.”

Jeeny: (softly, almost tenderly) “Then maybe that’s why democracies keep breaking, Jack. Because we’ve mistaken fear for realism.”

Host: For a moment, the only sound was the wind, rattling the shutters like a trapped thought. Jack’s hands clenched around the edge of the table.

Jack: “You think courage can replace fear? Tell that to the protester facing armed police. Tell that to the journalist who disappears after writing the truth.”

Jeeny: “And yet, they still speak. Still march. Still write. That’s the point — courage isn’t the absence of fear. It’s what we choose instead of surrender.”

Host: The lamp steadied, its flame small but unwavering — like a soul refusing to extinguish.

Jack: “You make it sound so simple.”

Jeeny: “It’s not simple. It’s necessary.”

Host: She moved closer until only the table’s edge separated them. Her eyes met his — steady, luminous.

Jeeny: “History doesn’t remember the frightened, Jack. It remembers those who acted despite it.”

Jack: (whispering) “Maybe fear is the only honest emotion left in politics.”

Jeeny: (shaking her head) “No. Fear is the most contagious lie. It spreads faster than truth, and kills slower than war.”

Host: Outside, the rain softened into a light mist — the world exhaling. The storm’s rage had passed, but its echo lingered in the air like smoke.

Jack sat back down, his shoulders sinking. For the first time, he looked tired — not from argument, but from understanding.

Jack: (quietly) “I used fear once. In a campaign. Told people the city would fall apart without me. They voted for me, of course. But every night after that, I felt it — the fear I’d planted, growing back toward me. I lost myself before I ever lost the election.”

Jeeny: (softly) “Then you already know Coleridge was right.”

Host: Her hand reached across the table, hovering just above his. Not touching — just near enough for warmth to exist between them.

Jeeny: “Fear may win power, but it can never win peace.”

Jack: “And courage?”

Jeeny: “Courage doesn’t always win. But it ends with dignity.”

Host: The lamp’s light began to fade, swallowed slowly by the quiet dawn filtering through the broken windowpanes. Outside, the flag still flapped — torn, fragile, but moving.

Host: And as the first thin beam of sunlight crept across the floor, the truth of Coleridge’s words hung in the air, quiet and absolute — that the politics of fear, like all shadows, can never survive the coming of light.