It is not because the truth is too difficult to see that we make

Host: The night was thick with fog, curling like old breath through the narrow streets of the old quarter. A streetlamp flickered above the doorway of a forgotten bookshop, its yellow light trembling across shelves heavy with dust and the weight of a thousand unread truths.

Inside, the air smelled of ink, smoke, and memory. Jack stood by the window, a cigarette burning between his fingers, the glow reflected faintly in his grey eyes. Jeeny sat cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by open books, her hands resting lightly on the pages, her gaze steady, as if searching for something that refused to be found.

A single quote, handwritten on a scrap of paper, lay between them like a confession:

“It is not because the truth is too difficult to see that we make mistakes... we make mistakes because the easiest and most comfortable course for us is to seek insight where it accords with our emotions — especially selfish ones.”
— Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn

Jack flicked ash into an empty teacup.

Jack: “So the great Solzhenitsyn says truth isn’t hard to find — we just refuse to look where it hurts. Sounds noble. But people aren’t built for pain, Jeeny. We survive by believing what keeps us breathing.”

Jeeny: “And that’s the problem. We’d rather stay alive than be awake. Comfort is the most dangerous narcotic.”

Host: The clock ticked faintly, each sound soft but precise — like time keeping score. The fog pressed against the window, blurring the world beyond.

Jack: “You make it sound like comfort’s a sin. But without it, life’s unbearable. People need illusions — they’re cushions for the mind.”

Jeeny: “Illusions are cages, Jack. The bars just feel soft because they’re lined with what we want to believe.”

Jack: “And what’s wrong with that? If believing a lie brings peace, who’s to say it’s wrong?”

Jeeny: “Because peace built on self-deception rots the soul. Look at the world — every war, every tyranny began with someone who believed their feelings were the truth.”

Host: A gust of wind rattled the window, and the lamplight flickered across Jeeny’s face, revealing both tenderness and fire.

Jack: “You think emotion corrupts truth?”

Jeeny: “No. I think unchecked emotion blinds us to it. We mistake what feels right for what is right — and that’s how we end up calling comfort wisdom.”

Jack: “You talk like logic is a religion.”

Jeeny: “It’s not logic I worship. It’s honesty — the kind that costs you something.”

Host: Jack turned toward her, smoke rising from his cigarette like a thin veil between them. His voice dropped, softer now, but still edged.

Jack: “You ever actually tried living that way? Facing truth without cushioning it with emotion? It’s not noble. It’s brutal.”

Jeeny: “I know. But it’s the only way to grow. The truth isn’t kind, Jack — but it’s cleansing. It burns, and then it clears.”

Jack: “Burning is still destruction.”

Jeeny: “Not always. Fire destroys what’s false so something real can rise.”

Host: The bookshelf behind her groaned as if the old wood itself approved. The flames from a nearby candle quivered — fragile, uncertain, like truth itself trembling in the face of comfort.

Jack: “You think people really want truth? They say they do — until it threatens their reflection. Then they call it cruelty.”

Jeeny: “Of course they don’t. Truth doesn’t flatter. It doesn’t bend to desire. That’s why we cling to what feels good — it’s easier to love a comforting lie than to serve a difficult truth.”

Jack: “So you’re saying emotion is the enemy?”

Jeeny: “No. It’s the compass that points inward — but the mind must still chart the map. Emotion tells you where to look; reason tells you what’s real.”

Host: The candle’s light wavered, throwing shadows that danced across the spines of old books — titles half-faded, ideas still burning. Jack set down his cigarette, its ember glowing briefly before dying out.

Jack: “You know what I think? Solzhenitsyn underestimated how much truth costs. He saw humanity through the lens of suffering — prisons, gulags, silence. To him, comfort was betrayal. But for most people, comfort is survival.”

Jeeny: “He didn’t underestimate it, Jack. He lived it. He watched people choose lies because the truth would have broken them. That’s why his words sting — because they’re not theoretical. They’re confessional.”

Jack: “You think I haven’t lived lies too? I’ve told myself every reason to justify what I’ve done — every choice I made for money, for safety, for ego. And you know what? I slept better when I lied to myself.”

Jeeny: “Until you didn’t.”

Host: A long silence stretched between them. The clock ticked again — louder now, or maybe just closer. Jeeny’s eyes softened, her tone gentler.

Jeeny: “We all lie to survive, Jack. But at some point, survival without truth becomes another kind of death.”

Jack: “You sound like you’ve rehearsed that.”

Jeeny: “I have. To myself. Every time I told a student they were ‘doing fine’ when they were falling apart. Every time I said I was happy when I was numb. We hide from pain until pain becomes our language.”

Host: Jack looked away, his jaw tightening. The fog outside was thinning now, the faint glow of dawn beginning to cut through the dark.

Jack: “Maybe that’s the curse of being human — we want truth, but we want it gentle. And the truth doesn’t know how to whisper.”

Jeeny: “No. It only knows how to echo.”

Host: She stood, moving toward the window. Her hand rested against the cold glass, tracing the condensation.

Jeeny: “Do you know why I love that quote?”

Jack: “Because it makes liars uncomfortable?”

Jeeny: “Because it reminds me that being wrong isn’t the problem. It’s refusing to question why we’re wrong that destroys us. We don’t make mistakes because truth is invisible — we make them because we only look where our ego shines the light.”

Jack: “So what then? Spend life doubting everything?”

Jeeny: “No. Spend life doubting yourself — just enough to keep your vision clear.”

Host: The first light of morning slipped through the fog, pale and quiet, filling the shop with the soft hue of awakening. Jack walked toward Jeeny, standing beside her at the window.

Jack: “You know, when I was younger, I thought truth was like gold — buried deep, worth digging for. Now I think it’s more like glass — always in front of you, but so easy to overlook because it’s clear.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “And it cuts when you touch it.”

Jack: “Yeah. It cuts.”

Host: Outside, the city was slowly waking — a lone vendor cart, the hum of early traffic, a world beginning again, unaware of the small storm that had just passed inside an old bookshop.

Jack: “Maybe Solzhenitsyn was right — we see what we want, not what is. Maybe comfort is the real blindness.”

Jeeny: “And the cure?”

Jack: “Courage. To look where it hurts.”

Jeeny: “And to keep looking, even when it shatters you.”

Host: The sunlight spilled through the window now, catching the dust in its path — each particle glowing, each flaw illuminated. It was imperfect, and beautiful, and true.

Jack reached for his book, closed it, and whispered almost to himself:

Jack: “Maybe the mind’s hardest work isn’t thinking — it’s unthinking what we wish was true.”

Jeeny: “That’s the beginning of sight, Jack.”

Host: The clock struck seven, and the fog outside finally lifted. The world was visible again — flawed, uncertain, real.

And in that fragile hour, between night’s deceit and morning’s light,
two souls stood at the thin border where truth begins —
where comfort ends,
and clarity, sharp and merciless, finally enters.