It is difficult to free fools from the chains they revere.

Host:
The evening fog rolled across the narrow cobblestone street, wrapping the old café in a thin veil of smoke and amber light. Inside, the world felt still — a handful of patrons murmuring over their cups, the air heavy with roasted coffee and quiet thought. The clock on the wall ticked lazily, its rhythm steady as breath.

At the corner table, near the window clouded with condensation, Jack and Jeeny sat opposite each other. Between them, the flicker of a single candle cast their faces into shifting light and shadow — as though truth itself couldn’t decide which of them it preferred.

Jeeny held a small notebook, her handwriting looping neatly across the page. She read aloud, her voice soft but cutting through the hum of the café:

"It is difficult to free fools from the chains they revere." — Voltaire

The words lingered like smoke, both bitter and true.

Jeeny: (quietly) “Voltaire didn’t waste words, did he? It’s not just an insult — it’s a tragedy. People don’t just live in chains. They fall in love with them.”

Jack: (leaning back, his eyes reflecting the candlelight) “Yeah. That’s the cruelty of it. Slavery of the mind isn’t maintained by force. It’s maintained by comfort. When the chains start to feel like jewelry, freedom starts to look dangerous.”

Host:
A gust of wind brushed against the windowpane, rattling it gently. The candle flame shuddered, casting sharp shadows on Jack’s face — his features carved by fatigue, by thought, by a kind of modern cynicism that had grown out of disappointment.

Jeeny: (thoughtfully) “I think Voltaire was talking about superstition and blind faith — about how people cling to the very beliefs that keep them powerless. But it still feels… modern. It’s not just religion now, is it? It’s ideology. It’s politics. It’s fame. It’s whatever lies people build to feel safe.”

Jack: (smirking slightly) “Exactly. The chains have just become digital. People don’t need priests anymore — they have algorithms. Instead of confessing sins, they post selfies. Instead of salvation, they chase validation. And when you try to wake them up, they defend their captors.”

Jeeny: (shaking her head) “Because the prison gives them meaning. Freedom demands self-awareness, and that’s terrifying for most people. It’s easier to obey a story than to create your own.”

Jack: (leaning forward) “And yet — the illusion feels good. Voltaire’s fools aren’t stupid. They’re human. They mistake familiarity for truth. Once a chain fits long enough, it starts to feel like identity.”

Host:
The candle guttered, the flame dancing dangerously low before steadying again. Outside, the fog pressed closer against the glass, blurring the lights of passing cars until they looked like fading stars.

Jeeny: (after a pause) “It’s heartbreaking though, isn’t it? You can’t force anyone to wake up. You can’t shout someone out of delusion — they have to want to see. Voltaire calls them ‘fools,’ but maybe he meant victims too.”

Jack: (quietly, his voice carrying that rough edge of honesty) “Maybe. But he also knew that compassion doesn’t always help. Sometimes the truth sounds cruel because it breaks the spell. When you tell people their gods are false, their politics corrupt, their comfort artificial — they don’t thank you. They hate you.”

Jeeny: (softly) “Because you’ve stolen their certainty.”

Jack: (nodding) “Exactly. And people would rather live in a comfortable lie than face the chaos of being wrong.”

Host:
A waitress passed by, refilling cups. The faint hiss of the espresso machine punctuated the silence. Jeeny wrapped her hands around her mug as though seeking warmth from it, her reflection trembling faintly in the dark liquid.

Jeeny: (with quiet intensity) “It’s strange. The more access we have to truth — books, data, voices — the less we seem to use it. It’s like drowning in light and still refusing to open your eyes.”

Jack: (half-smiling, but without humor) “Because the truth doesn’t sell. Lies do. Lies comfort. The market for illusion is eternal. Voltaire saw it in monarchies; we see it in media. Different crowns, same obedience.”

Jeeny: (raising her eyebrows slightly) “So what do you do then? Just give up? Let the fools revere their chains?”

Jack: (after a long pause) “No. You don’t give up. But you stop trying to drag them out. You plant doubt instead — small, quiet doubts that grow in the dark. You can’t free someone by breaking their chains. You have to make them want to remove them themselves.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Seeds of rebellion.”

Jack: (nodding) “Exactly. Revolution never starts with a mob. It starts with one person thinking, ‘Wait… what if they’re lying?’”

Host:
The fog thickened outside, pressing the world into obscurity. Inside, the café lights glowed brighter against the encroaching dark. The world beyond the glass had become invisible — a fitting metaphor for the truth they were dissecting.

Jeeny: (softly, almost wistfully) “Sometimes I envy the fools. To believe in something so completely, even if it’s false — there’s comfort in that kind of blindness. It must be peaceful.”

Jack: (smiling sadly) “It is. But it’s a peace built on ignorance — the kind that ends the moment reality knocks. The free suffer, but at least they suffer awake.”

Jeeny: (gazing out the window) “So the choice is between comfortable lies and painful freedom.”

Jack: (quietly) “Always has been. Voltaire chose the pain — most don’t.”

Host:
The candle was nearly out now, the last of the wax pooling at its base. The light wavered, fragile but still alive — a flicker of persistence against the darkness.

Jeeny: (closing her notebook) “You know, every time I read Voltaire, I feel like he’s talking to us across centuries — warning us not about kings or priests, but about our own minds. Maybe the real chains are the ones we decorate — pride, fear, belonging.”

Jack: (softly, almost to himself) “And the saddest part? He wasn’t just describing others. He was describing us all.”

Jeeny: (looking at him) “Even you?”

Jack: (meeting her gaze, half-smiling) “Especially me.”

Host (closing):
The candle flame flickered once more, then finally went out, leaving only the faint reflection of city lights in the café window — a mirror of truth and illusion intertwined.

Voltaire’s words lingered in the darkness like a whisper from another age:
"It is difficult to free fools from the chains they revere."

And as Jack and Jeeny sat in silence, the fog pressed closer, wrapping the world in its soft deceit — a perfect symbol of the very thing they had spoken of:
how easy it is to be blind,
and how painful it is to see.