Once we believe in ourselves, we can risk curiosity, wonder

Host: The evening unfolded over the city like a slow symphony — lights flickering on one by one, cars humming in the distance, and a soft drizzle gathering on the cobblestones. Inside a dimly lit art studio, the air smelled of turpentine, rain, and the faint, nostalgic scent of old wood.

Canvases leaned against the walls, each one a half-finished confession. A single lamp illuminated Jeeny, who stood before a large blank canvas, her brush trembling slightly above the surface. Jack sat nearby on an overturned crate, his jacket soaked from the rain, a cigarette dangling loosely between his fingers, the smoke curling like hesitant thought.

Host: The room was quiet except for the sound of rain tapping against the window and the faint crackle of Jack’s cigarette. It was the kind of night where words found their way into the air without permission.

Jeeny: “You ever think about what e. e. cummings meant when he said, ‘Once we believe in ourselves, we can risk curiosity, wonder, spontaneous delight… or any experience that reveals the human spirit’?”

Jack: “I think it’s what people say when they’re afraid of failure,” he replied, his voice low and deliberate. “Belief doesn’t change reality. It just makes disappointment sting more.”

Jeeny: “That’s not belief,” she said softly, turning toward him. “That’s expectation. Belief is different. It’s not about what you get — it’s about what you allow yourself to reach for.”

Host: The rain outside grew heavier, the drops streaking down the window like faint tears from an unseen sky. Jack exhaled a plume of smoke, watching it dissolve into the dim light.

Jack: “I’ve seen too many people ‘believe’ in themselves right into disaster. Artists who thought they were geniuses until they starved. Dreamers who thought faith could pay rent.”

Jeeny: “And yet, it’s the same belief that makes people create at all,” she said, her eyes bright but steady. “Without it, no one risks wonder. No one dares curiosity. We’d all just survive — efficient, predictable, safe… and completely dead inside.”

Jack: “You sound like one of those inspirational posters,” he said with a crooked grin. “Next you’ll tell me the universe is inside me.”

Jeeny: “It is,” she said, smiling faintly. “But most people build walls around it and call that wisdom.”

Host: Jack’s laugh came out rough but not cruel. The lamp light caught the faint lines around his eyes, the kind carved not by age, but by exhaustion — the kind that comes from years of doubting what once felt pure.

Jack: “You think believing in yourself is easy? You think it’s some switch you flip? I tried that once, Jeeny. I thought I could write — that I had something worth saying. And when no one cared, belief didn’t save me. It made the silence louder.”

Jeeny: “That’s because you confused belief with proof,” she said. “You wanted the world to believe first. But cummings didn’t mean belief that waits for applause. He meant the kind that comes before the noise — the kind that dares to exist even when no one’s listening.”

Host: Her voice hung in the air like a small flame, soft yet unflinching. The studio seemed to listen too — every brush, every canvas, every silent corner.

Jack: “So you’re saying we should keep risking disappointment? That we should keep creating even when it hurts?”

Jeeny: “Yes,” she said simply. “Because curiosity isn’t safe. Wonder isn’t controlled. And spontaneous delight — it’s the universe’s rebellion against cynicism.”

Host: She turned back to the canvas, dipped her brush into blue paint, and drew a single bold stroke across the white. The color shone like courage made visible.

Jack watched, eyes tracing the movement of the brush, something old and quiet stirring in him.

Jack: “You make it sound holy.”

Jeeny: “It is,” she said, still painting. “Believing in yourself isn’t arrogance. It’s reverence — for the piece of existence that only you can touch.”

Host: A faint smile ghosted across Jack’s lips. The rain softened, becoming a rhythmic whisper on the glass.

Jack: “You know, when I was a kid, I used to climb the tallest tree in the park. I wasn’t brave — I just wanted to see farther than anyone else. My father would yell at me to come down before I broke my neck. But up there… I felt something. Like the world was mine, even if no one saw it. Maybe that’s what you mean.”

Jeeny: “Exactly,” she said warmly. “That’s belief — the kind that climbs just to see, not to prove.”

Host: The studio light caught the gleam of her brushstrokes, streaks of blue and gold blooming like thought turned tangible. Jack leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

Jack: “But isn’t there danger in too much belief? People who think they’re invincible tend to hurt others. History’s full of self-believers who became tyrants.”

Jeeny: “That’s not belief — that’s ego. True belief humbles you. It opens you to the world instead of closing it around you.”

Jack: “And you think curiosity does that?”

Jeeny: “Curiosity saves us from certainty. Wonder saves us from numbness. And delight — delight reminds us that we’re still alive.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked quietly, marking not time but change. The rain had stopped, leaving behind a clean, fragile silence.

Jack: “You talk like life’s a poem,” he said softly.

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. Maybe that’s why cummings didn’t write it like everyone else. He bent the rules — because believing in yourself means daring to write your own language.”

Host: Jack’s eyes softened, his cigarette burning out between his fingers unnoticed. He looked at her — the paint smudged on her cheek, the determination in her eyes, the quiet fire in her stillness — and something inside him loosened.

Jack: “Maybe that’s what I’ve been missing,” he said after a long pause. “Not skill. Not opportunity. Just permission.”

Jeeny: “From who?”

Jack: “Myself.”

Host: She smiled, the kind of smile that doesn’t need words — one that understands defeat and still chooses faith.

Jeeny: “Then give it,” she said. “Right now.”

Host: He laughed softly, shaking his head, but his eyes shone differently — brighter, younger.

Jack: “You make it sound easy.”

Jeeny: “It isn’t. But it’s simple.”

Host: The lamp flickered once, then steadied. The paint glistened under its light — a riot of imperfect colors that somehow felt alive.

Jack stood, walked over to the canvas, and picked up another brush. He hesitated for only a moment, then dipped it into a jar of crimson paint.

Jeeny: “There,” she said softly. “Curiosity.”

Host: He painted one long, uncertain line beside hers. It wobbled slightly, uneven — but it was his. And when he stepped back, there was something undeniable about it: a beginning.

Jack: “Maybe cummings was right,” he said quietly. “Once you believe, you can risk — not because you’ll succeed, but because you’re alive enough to try.”

Jeeny: “And that’s the only kind of success that matters.”

Host: Outside, the clouds broke, revealing a thin line of moonlight. It spilled through the window, catching on their paint-streaked hands, lighting the unfinished canvas between them.

For a long while, neither spoke. The city outside moved on — cars, laughter, footsteps, all part of the same rhythm. But inside that small studio, time paused, humbled before two souls who dared to risk wonder.

Host: And as the light deepened, and the colors dried into quiet testimony, one truth lingered like a whisper across the air:

That belief is not the absence of fear — but the courage to paint anyway, to ask, to laugh, to begin again.

Host: The human spirit, fragile yet infinite, gleamed faintly in the lamp’s dying glow — a reminder that curiosity, wonder, and delight are not privileges of the gifted, but birthrights of the brave.