Pessimism only describes an attitude, and not facts, and hence is

Host: The evening sky hung heavy with gray, a silent prelude to rain. In a corner of the old train station café, the lights flickered like tired thoughts. The sound of departing trains hummed beneath the walls — a steady, melancholic rhythm.

Jack sat by the window, his hands wrapped around a chipped coffee mug. Across from him, Jeeny stirred her tea absentmindedly, watching the steam curl and fade like ghosts.

Host: The air smelled of rain-soaked metal and burnt espresso. Outside, the last orange of the sunset bled into dusk.

Jeeny: quietly “It’s strange, isn’t it — how some people can see the same sunset and call it beautiful, while others call it the end of the day.”

Jack: glances up, smirking faintly “That’s just perspective. Or delusion, depending on your mood.”

Jeeny: “Francis Parker Yockey once said — ‘Pessimism only describes an attitude, and not facts, and hence is entirely subjective.’ Maybe that’s the point. We see what we choose to see.”

Jack: leans back “No, Jeeny. We see what’s there. The world doesn’t change because you want it to. Optimism and pessimism — they’re just filters. The facts stay the same.”

Jeeny: tilting her head “Do they? Facts might stay, but meaning changes. When someone says they’ve lost faith in the world, that’s not science — it’s heartbreak.”

Host: A train roared past outside, shaking the window slightly. The light trembled across their faces — hers gentle, his angular, half-hidden in shadow.

Jack: “You’re turning emotion into evidence. That’s dangerous. A pessimist isn’t wrong just because they feel bleak. Sometimes things are bleak.”

Jeeny: “But that’s still an attitude, Jack. It’s not reality — it’s a lens. Look at the same world from a different angle, and you’ll see different truths.”

Jack: dryly “So the starving man should just change his lens?”

Jeeny: “No. But he can still believe tomorrow exists. That’s what keeps him alive.”

Host: Her voice cracked slightly at the end — not from weakness, but from conviction that had lived too long without rest.

Jack: “You sound like you’ve memorized hope.”

Jeeny: “Maybe because I’ve needed it.”

Host: Silence fell like dust. The clock on the wall ticked — slow, deliberate.

Jack: staring into his coffee “You know, I once worked with a man who lost everything in the crash of 2008. Investments, house, family. He used to sit in the breakroom and say, ‘It’s all just gravity pulling us down.’ You could call him a pessimist — but wasn’t he right?”

Jeeny: “Maybe he was tired, not right. Sometimes despair dresses itself as realism to survive its own disappointment.”

Jack: “That’s poetic, but not helpful. People suffer. The facts are ugly.”

Jeeny: “But we choose whether to call them fatal. That’s what Yockey meant — pessimism doesn’t describe the facts; it describes our surrender to them.”

Host: A gust of wind rattled the windowpane. Somewhere nearby, a child laughed, the sound piercing the gloom like a small light.

Jack: watching the rain start to fall “You make it sound like optimism is courage.”

Jeeny: smiles faintly “Isn’t it?”

Jack: “No. Courage is seeing how bad things are and moving anyway. Optimism is pretending the bad will fix itself.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe pessimism is pretending that it never could.”

Host: The rain grew heavier — a steady rhythm against the glass. Jack’s reflection wavered beside hers, two faces blurred into one uncertain outline.

Jack: “You know, my father used to say, ‘Hope is for people who don’t understand math.’”

Jeeny: laughs softly “And your mother?”

Jack: “She used to tell him, ‘Then go ahead and calculate your happiness.’”

Host: The corners of his mouth lifted. A rare crack in his composure.

Jeeny: “See? Even she knew pessimism is just a costume for fear. It’s a way to avoid disappointment.”

Jack: sighing “Or a way to brace for it.”

Jeeny: “But you can’t live life as a preemptive tragedy, Jack.”

Jack: leans forward, voice low “You can if it keeps you sane. The world doesn’t reward naïveté.”

Jeeny: “It doesn’t reward cynicism either. It just mirrors it.”

Host: A brief silence settled, filled with the sound of the rain’s endless applause.

Jack: “You think seeing the worst in people is a choice?”

Jeeny: “It’s always a choice.”

Jack: “Then explain history. Wars, corruption, cruelty — are those attitudes too?”

Jeeny: “They’re facts, yes. But so are compassion, art, forgiveness. You choose which ones to amplify.”

Jack: “You’re simplifying.”

Jeeny: “No. You’re complicating to justify despair.”

Host: The tension in the air thickened, like storm clouds gathering inside their words. Jack looked away, his eyes tracking a droplet sliding down the window.

Jeeny: softly “You know what I think pessimism really is? It’s grief without a funeral.”

Host: He blinked. The words lingered, heavy, intimate.

Jack: quietly “And optimism?”

Jeeny: “Faith without proof.”

Jack: “That sounds like madness.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But it’s the only madness that builds anything.”

Host: The rain eased. The air grew still. For a long moment, they sat in silence — two sides of the same coin, spinning slowly in time.

Jack: half-smiling “You really think attitude changes facts?”

Jeeny: “No. But it changes what the facts mean. That’s the difference between surviving and living.”

Host: A train wailed in the distance, fading into the night. The café lights flickered once more, then steadied.

Jack: “So pessimism’s not truth — it’s interpretation.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. A dark translation of the same story.”

Host: He nodded slowly, as if conceding to her version of the world — not entirely, but enough.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe attitude is just the color of the lens.”

Jeeny: smiles softly “Then choose one that lets in light.”

Host: The rain stopped. Outside, the street shimmered under a shy moonlight. Jack looked out the window, his reflection softened — the hardness in his eyes giving way to something fragile, almost human.

The world hadn’t changed. The facts were still the same — gray sky, wet streets, tired faces. But in the small café, something invisible had shifted: the temperature of belief, the tint of perception.

Host: And as they rose to leave, the faint sound of another departing train echoed through the station — neither sad nor hopeful, just alive.

Because perhaps Yockey was right — pessimism describes only an attitude.
And tonight, for a moment, even Jack chose a different one.