It was amazing to me that, all of a sudden, I was hearing my

Host: The sun was setting behind the city skyline, a slow bleed of amber and violet dissolving into the horizon. The air smelled of concrete and smoke, the kind of smell that holds both exhaustion and promise. Jack and Jeeny walked along an empty bridge, the river below glimmering with fractured light. Somewhere nearby, a car radio played a familiar tune — distant, muffled, but alive.

Jeeny’s eyes lifted toward the sound, and she smiled.

Jeeny: “You hear that?”

Jack: (tilts his head) “Yeah. Lenny Kravitz. ‘It Ain’t Over ’til It’s Over.’ Haven’t heard that in years.”

Jeeny: (grinning) “He once said, ‘It was amazing to me that, all of a sudden, I was hearing my music on the radio and coming out of cars.’ Can you imagine that feeling? Hearing your own soul playing back to you from the world?”

Host: The wind brushed her hair across her face. Jack’s eyes, grey and distant, followed the river’s reflection of streetlights flickering like liquid constellations.

Jack: “I don’t know, Jeeny. If I ever heard my own voice coming out of strangers’ cars, I think I’d feel terrified, not amazed. It’s like losing control of yourself — watching your own echo become public property.”

Jeeny: (softly) “Or maybe it’s the opposite. Maybe it’s proof you finally exist in the world. That you’re not just an idea trapped in your own head anymore.”

Host: A bus rumbled past the bridge, its windows glowing, carrying faces half-seen and half-dreamed. The music from a nearby car swelled for a moment — Kravitz’s voice bursting clear through the air — before fading again into the hum of the city.

Jack: “You call it existence. I call it exposure. The moment your voice leaves you, it stops being yours. It gets twisted, overplayed, misunderstood.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But isn’t that the point of creation? To let go? To see what the world does with what you’ve made?”

Jack: “Let go? You make it sound romantic. But most of the world doesn’t care who made the song — they just hum along until something newer comes along. Fame is a temporary illusion; art is a disposable product.”

Host: Jeeny stopped, leaning against the cold metal railing. The last of the sunlight caught in her eyes, a warm glint against the growing dusk.

Jeeny: “You always reduce wonder to marketing, Jack. But think about it — a man sits alone, writes a song out of heartbreak or joy, and months later it’s carried through the air, reaching people he’ll never meet. Isn’t that something sacred?”

Jack: “Sacred?” (he laughs quietly) “You think radio airplay is holy?”

Jeeny: “No. But connection is. The moment your voice — your pain, your joy — touches a stranger and makes them feel less alone… that’s sacred.”

Host: The bridge trembled faintly as another train roared beneath them. Jack’s coat flared in the wind, his face half-hidden in shadow.

Jack: “You talk like music saves people.”

Jeeny: “Doesn’t it? When Billie Holiday sang ‘Strange Fruit,’ it wasn’t just art — it was protest. When Lennon sang ‘Imagine,’ it wasn’t just melody — it was faith. And when Lenny Kravitz heard his own song in the air, it wasn’t vanity — it was proof that his voice had joined something larger than himself.”

Jack: “Or proof that he was finally being commodified.”

Jeeny: “You always go there — to cynicism. But tell me, what’s wrong with being heard? Even if the world mishears you, at least you’ve been echoed.”

Host: A silence fell, broken only by the distant pulse of the city — sirens, laughter, the occasional crackle of a radio shifting frequencies.

Jack: (quietly) “You know, when I was nineteen, I played guitar in a band. We were small, played in bars. One night, a stranger came up after the set — said our song reminded him of his brother who’d died. I didn’t even know what to say.”

Jeeny: (softly) “What did you say?”

Jack: “Nothing. I just nodded. But later, walking home, I realized — the song wasn’t mine anymore. It had found another meaning. Maybe… that’s what Kravitz felt.”

Host: The lights flickered on along the bridge, each one humming softly as if to punctuate his words.

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s the miracle — when something you made escapes you and still finds someone. That’s how art lives — by leaving its author.”

Jack: (half-smiling now) “So you’re saying we don’t own what we create.”

Jeeny: “No artist ever has. Once it’s out there, it belongs to whoever needs it.”

Host: The river reflected the city’s glow, rippling gold and black. The air smelled faintly of ozone, of renewal after rain.

Jack: “You know, it’s strange. I’ve spent years working on things I never let anyone see. Afraid they weren’t perfect. Afraid of judgment. But maybe… the point isn’t to be perfect. Maybe it’s to be heard, even imperfectly.”

Jeeny: “That’s it. To be heard — to exist outside yourself. That’s what amazement is. Kravitz wasn’t amazed at fame; he was amazed that the world finally answered back.”

Host: The wind softened, carrying the fading tune from another car radio — some old Motown groove. The sound drifted through the dusk like a memory refusing to die.

Jack: (smiling faintly) “It’s funny, isn’t it? We spend so much of our lives trying to make noise, and when the world finally echoes it back, we’re… surprised.”

Jeeny: “Because deep down, none of us believe we’ll ever truly be heard.”

Host: The city’s hum grew distant, the night deepening around them. A lone streetlight flickered, its reflection dancing across the river like a trembling heartbeat.

Jack: “You know, maybe that’s what amazement really is — the shock of being witnessed. The disbelief that the invisible part of you has finally found a voice.”

Jeeny: “Yes. And when that voice comes back to you — from a car radio, a stranger, a world you thought was deaf — it’s not about ego. It’s about communion.”

Host: Jack turned, leaning beside her against the rail. The two of them stood, side by side, the city alive beneath their feet.

Jack: “So maybe hearing your song out in the world isn’t losing it. Maybe it’s like hearing your child’s laughter from another room — distant, but yours all the same.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Exactly. It’s the sound of your soul traveling.”

Host: The music faded, replaced by the hush of evening — a tender stillness after noise. In that moment, the bridge, the river, the city, even the air between them, felt like part of one great rhythm — an invisible concert of presence and persistence.

Jeeny: (whispering) “He was amazed because he realized he wasn’t alone anymore.”

Jack: “And maybe none of us are — not really — as long as something we’ve said, sung, or loved keeps playing somewhere out there.”

Host: The river carried the sound away, folding it into the dark. And as Jack and Jeeny walked off the bridge, the city lights shimmered like applause — quiet, distant, eternal.

For in that simple miracle — a song leaving one heart to reach another —
they both understood what Lenny Kravitz meant:
that amazement is not pride,
but the soft, stunned gratitude of hearing your own life
sing back to you.