Not necessity, not desire - no, the love of power is the demon of

Host: The city was drowning in neon — a sprawl of glass and steel gleaming like a cathedral built to consumption. The night buzzed with energy — screens flashing advertisements, traffic humming like a restless pulse, people moving with the hungry precision of machines trying to forget they’re tired.

From a rooftop high above, two figures stood watching it all — Jack and Jeeny, silhouettes framed by the dizzying glow below. The air was thick with electricity and faint music from the streets, the kind of night that made the world feel both infinite and painfully small.

Jeeny leaned against the railing, her hair caught in the wind. Jack stood beside her, cigarette burning low between his fingers. Neither spoke for a moment. The silence felt earned — the kind of silence that comes only after too much talking, too much striving.

Jeeny: softly “Nietzsche once said, ‘Not necessity, not desire — no, the love of power is the demon of men. Let them have everything — health, food, a place to live, entertainment — they are and remain unhappy and low-spirited: for the demon waits and waits and will be satisfied.’”
She looked out over the city. “You see it down there, don’t you? That hunger that never ends.”

Jack: exhaling smoke, eyes on the skyline “Yeah. The world’s full, but everyone’s starving.”

Host: The wind moved through them, sharp and cold, carrying the echo of sirens far below — the modern hymn of progress.

Jeeny: “He called it a demon, but I think it’s more like an addiction. The more you feed it, the emptier you get.”

Jack: “Power’s the only hunger that pretends to be noble.”

Jeeny: “And the only one that disguises itself as purpose.”

Jack: quietly “You think that’s what we’ve become? Addicts looking for our next fix of control?”

Jeeny: “Not just control. Importance. We don’t just want to live — we want to matter.”

Host: The lights of the skyscrapers shimmered below, endless rows of windows — each one a story, a soul, a silent negotiation between comfort and despair.

Jack: “Nietzsche saw it early, didn’t he? He looked at man and saw a creature who’d rather dominate than be content. We invent gods, wealth, politics — all just to give structure to our will to power.”

Jeeny: “And when we run out of others to rule, we turn on ourselves.”

Jack: “Yeah. Self-improvement as self-tyranny.”

Jeeny: nodding slowly “That’s the irony — we worship freedom, but we crave hierarchy. We can’t survive without someone above or below us.”

Jack: “Because equality scares us. If no one’s greater, no one’s smaller — and then we’d have to face our own mediocrity.”

Jeeny: “And mediocrity terrifies the human ego more than death.”

Host: The city wind howled between the buildings — a hollow, metallic sound, like the earth sighing under its own ambition.

Jack: “You ever think maybe Nietzsche wasn’t warning us, but describing us?”

Jeeny: “He was doing both. He was saying, ‘This is who we are — but God help us if we stop noticing it.’”

Jack: “But we did. We built systems that reward the very demon he was talking about. Corporate ladders, social hierarchies, the myth of progress.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “The worship of ‘more.’”

Jack: “More money, more likes, more visibility.”

Jeeny: “More everything, except peace.”

Host: The moonlight glinted off the glass towers, reflecting their faces back at them — fractured, multiplied, distorted. Two small figures staring into the machine they helped build.

Jeeny: “You know what’s tragic? We could have everything Nietzsche listed — comfort, safety, pleasure — and still be restless. Because the demon he spoke of doesn’t feed on things. It feeds on comparison.”

Jack: grimly “And the world’s never been more comparative.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. We’ve built entire identities out of envy. Power’s no longer about ruling nations — it’s about ruling narratives.”

Jack: “So, the battlefield moved online.”

Jeeny: “And the casualties are spiritual.”

Host: The rain began — thin, cold drops smearing the city lights into blurred constellations. The sound softened the noise below, made everything momentarily human again.

Jack: “You think there’s a way to kill that demon? To live without it?”

Jeeny: after a pause “Not kill it. But starve it.”

Jack: “How?”

Jeeny: “By trading ambition for meaning. By choosing to build, not conquer. By learning to admire without needing to possess.”

Jack: “Sounds like sainthood.”

Jeeny: smiling sadly “No. Just sanity.”

Host: The rain fell harder now, running down their faces like baptism, or fatigue. The city below shimmered, alive and indifferent.

Jack: “Maybe that’s what Nietzsche meant all along — that the demon never leaves. It just waits. And every generation decides whether to feed it or face it.”

Jeeny: “And right now, I think we’re feeding it like it’s sacred.”

Jack: “Because it gives us something to blame when the emptiness comes.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s easier to worship the demon than to admit it lives in you.”

Host: The thunder rolled faintly in the distance, a low, trembling sound that seemed to shake the skyline itself.

Jack: “So what do we do?”

Jeeny: “We look inward. And when life squeezes us — when ambition, fear, and envy press down — we choose what leaks out.”

Jack: “Love instead of power.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Creation instead of conquest.”

Host: The rain slowed, leaving the rooftops glistening. The world below shimmered like liquid fire, reflections dancing in every puddle.

Jeeny turned to him, her voice quiet, almost reverent. “Nietzsche was right — power is the demon of men. But even demons obey what we feed them. If we stop offering fear, they starve.”

Jack: nodding slowly “So the antidote to power… is humility.”

Jeeny: “And the courage to be small — but whole.”

Host: They stood there in silence — two figures on a rooftop, surrounded by the endless hum of humanity below. The camera would pull back slowly, showing the vast grid of light stretching to the horizon — every window a fragment of hope, greed, or love.

And as the scene faded into the silver wash of dawn, Friedrich Nietzsche’s words would echo through the hum of the waking city:

“Not necessity, not desire — no, the love of power is the demon of men. Let them have everything — health, food, a place to live, entertainment — they are and remain unhappy and low-spirited: for the demon waits and waits and will be satisfied.”

Because the hunger for power
is not born of need —
but of emptiness.

It is the ache of the soul
that cannot sit still in gratitude.

Give man the world,
and he will still reach for the crown,
because peace feels too quiet
for those addicted to noise.

And yet,
in the silence after the storm,
when ambition sleeps and love speaks,
the demon starves —
and the human being finally breathes.