My feeling is that labels are for canned food... I am what I am -

Title: The Unlabeled Soul

Host: The night had fallen over an old vinyl shop tucked away in a side street, its dusty window glowing with the warm amber light of forgotten songs. Outside, the rain whispered against the cracked sidewalk, drumming a rhythm that sounded like the heartbeat of the city itself.

Inside, the air was thick with the scent of paper sleeves, coffee, and the faint hum of an old record player spinning somewhere in the back — a melancholic tune from another era.

Jack stood by a shelf stacked with records, his fingers tracing across album spines as though reading the Braille of lost decades. He wore a dark jacket, collar up, his expression half-hidden in the dim light.

Jeeny sat cross-legged on the floor near the back, surrounded by open crates of vinyls, flipping through covers with the calm precision of someone searching not for a record, but for herself.

Jeeny: “Michael Stipe once said — ‘My feeling is that labels are for canned food... I am what I am — and I know what I am.’”

Jack: (without turning) “I like that. Short. Sharp. Unapologetic.”

Host: His voice was a low hum, rough around the edges — the kind of tone that could belong to either a poet or a skeptic.

Jeeny: “It’s strange, isn’t it? How we spend our lives trying to name everything. Ourselves, our loves, our pain — as if truth needs a title.”

Jack: “That’s because people are terrified of not fitting somewhere. Labels give us walls — and walls give us safety.”

Jeeny: “Or cages.”

Jack: “Same thing, if you decorate them enough.”

Host: The record player in the corner clicked softly, shifting to another song — a slow, haunting guitar riff that seemed to echo their words.

Jeeny: “You ever feel trapped by what people think you are?”

Jack: “All the time. Once they label you, you stop being human. You become shorthand. A summary on someone else’s shelf.”

Jeeny: “And you play along?”

Jack: “Of course. It’s easier. People don’t want complexity; they want categories. They want to know if you’re hero or villain before the credits roll.”

Jeeny: “And what are you?”

Jack: “Depends on the lighting.”

Host: She laughed — softly, warmly — the kind of sound that makes silence seem less lonely.

Jeeny: “You always hide behind jokes when it gets too honest.”

Jack: “And you always pull honesty out like a knife.”

Jeeny: “Someone has to cut through the act.”

Host: The rain outside intensified, tapping against the window like impatient fingers. A neon sign from across the street cast pale red across the records, bathing their faces in light that flickered like an unsteady pulse.

Jeeny: “You know, Stipe had it right. Labels are for convenience, not for truth. We label people so we don’t have to understand them.”

Jack: “Exactly. ‘He’s difficult.’ ‘She’s emotional.’ ‘They’re weird.’ The label replaces the conversation.”

Jeeny: “And once you’re named, you’re frozen — like an exhibit. The living thing behind the glass stops evolving.”

Jack: “That’s why I stopped explaining myself years ago. I’d rather be misunderstood than misdefined.”

Jeeny: “So you just let people think what they want?”

Jack: “Yeah. Let them build their own version of me. It’s never accurate, but it’s always revealing — of them.”

Host: The song shifted again — a low voice murmuring about identity, loss, freedom. The sound filled the small space, wrapping them both in the intimacy of confession.

Jeeny: “It’s funny how labels can start as protection and end as prisons. People say ‘I’m this,’ ‘I’m that,’ and before long, they forget who said it first.”

Jack: “You mean how people wear their labels like armor until it rusts?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The stronger the definition, the weaker the self beneath it.”

Jack: (leans against the shelf) “You sound like someone who’s broken free.”

Jeeny: “No. Just someone who got tired of pretending.”

Jack: “Pretending what?”

Jeeny: “That I needed to be one thing. That I had to pick a box and live in it forever.”

Host: The lightbulb above them flickered once, twice, before steadying — the glow softer now, gentler. The shadows on the walls seemed to move with the music, as though listening.

Jack: “You ever notice how society applauds clarity? Like being sure of who you are is the ultimate virtue. But what if the truth is — we’re meant to be uncertain?”

Jeeny: “Then maybe confusion isn’t weakness. Maybe it’s evolution.”

Jack: “You’re saying it’s okay not to know?”

Jeeny: “It’s necessary. Because knowing ends the story too soon.”

Host: Jack’s eyes met hers. Something in his gaze — that restless, seeking look — softened. The tension in his jaw released.

Jeeny: “What about you, Jack? Who are you, without the labels?”

Jack: (after a long silence) “A question still asking itself.”

Host: The rain softened, its rhythm now steady, reflective. A car passed outside, splashing through a puddle — a fleeting, distant echo.

Jeeny: “You know what I think? We label because we’re scared of how infinite we are. The moment you name something, it stops expanding.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s why art matters — it refuses to stay still long enough to be labeled.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Music, film, architecture — they all breathe, shift, reinvent. Humans should too.”

Jack: “So we should live like art.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Messy, undefinable, alive.”

Host: Her words hung in the air like smoke — visible, temporary, beautiful. The record player clicked again; silence filled the gap between songs.

Jack: “You know what I think Stipe was really saying? That self-knowledge doesn’t come from definition. It comes from acceptance. He didn’t need a label because he had clarity.”

Jeeny: “And clarity isn’t the same as certainty.”

Jack: “Right. It’s peace with the unknown.”

Jeeny: “So you can say, ‘I am what I am,’ without needing to explain what that is.”

Jack: “Exactly.”

Host: A faint smile touched his lips — the kind that comes not from joy, but from understanding. The kind that feels like exhaling after years of holding your breath.

Jeeny: “You ever notice, though, how the people who say they ‘know who they are’ are usually still searching?”

Jack: “That’s the paradox. To know yourself is to keep changing.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the goal isn’t to define ourselves. It’s to keep dissolving the definitions.”

Jack: “To unlearn.”

Jeeny: “To unlabel.”

Host: The final song began — a slow, haunting melody filled with the hum of a cello and a voice whispering something unintelligible but true.

Jack walked over to the record player and flipped the vinyl sleeve over. On its cover, a simple black circle floated against a white background — no title, no artist, no label.

He smiled.

Jack: “You know what I love about this one?”

Jeeny: “What?”

Jack: “It’s untitled.”

Jeeny: (softly) “Like us.”

Host: The rain outside finally stopped. The world beyond the window was quiet, washed clean.

They sat there — two unlabeled souls in a city that loved its categories — surrounded by sound, silence, and everything in between.

Host: And as the final notes faded into the stillness, Michael Stipe’s words lived again —

That labels are for shelves, not souls.
That the truest life is not the named one,
but the one still being discovered.

The record spun to a stop,
the needle lifted,
and the silence that followed
was not emptiness —
it was identity,
breathing.