So many gods, so many creeds, so many paths that wind and wind

Host: The afternoon light slid through the dusty windows of a nearly forgotten train station. Outside, the world hummed — horns, footsteps, voices, all blending into a soft murmur of motion and memory. A single clock ticked above the arches, its hands crawling over a face cracked with age.

Host: On one of the old benches, Jack sat — coat unbuttoned, a half-finished coffee cooling beside him. His grey eyes followed the movement of people passing: a priest, a street vendor, a couple arguing softly in another language. Beside him, Jeeny leaned back, her hair catching the faint sunlight, her eyes tracing the slow dance of dust in the air.

Host: Between them lay an old book of poetry, its pages yellow and curled. The words of Ella Wheeler Wilcox were underlined in pen, the ink slightly blurred from old hands and older rain:
“So many gods, so many creeds, so many paths that wind and wind, while just the art of being kind is all the sad world needs.”

Host: The station announcer’s voice echoed distantly, ghostlike, as if carried from another time.

Jack: “You ever think it’s strange how everyone believes they’ve found the right way to live — the right god, the right creed, the right truth — and yet the world keeps breaking in the same places?”

Jeeny: “It’s not strange. It’s human. Everyone’s just trying to make meaning out of the mess.”

Jack: “Yeah, but at what cost? People kill for their meanings. They build walls, draw lines, declare who belongs and who doesn’t. All in the name of being right.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what Wilcox was mourning — that kindness got lost between the doctrines. We’ve learned to defend belief better than to live it.”

Host: The light shifted, a soft gold spilling across their faces. Outside, a train whistle cried, long and low — the sound of departure, of things moving forward whether hearts are ready or not.

Jack: “Kindness.” He said the word like it was both fragile and foreign. “It sounds simple, but it’s the hardest thing to practice. Everyone wants to be righteous — no one wants to be gentle.”

Jeeny: “Because gentleness doesn’t make headlines. It doesn’t win arguments. But it heals. That’s its quiet rebellion.”

Host: Jack’s eyes darkened, his jaw tightening as he looked at a man outside yelling at a vendor, his voice sharp and ugly. The vendor said nothing, just kept stacking oranges into a crooked pyramid.

Jack: “And look what the world rewards — noise, not kindness. Power, not grace.”

Jeeny: “You’re right. But that’s why it matters when someone chooses the opposite. Because in a world addicted to noise, silence becomes radical.”

Jack: “You think kindness is silence?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes. Sometimes it’s the pause before the retaliation — the breath before the storm that never comes. That kind of restraint, Jack — that’s an art.”

Host: The clock ticked, heavy and slow. The world outside blurred for a moment — a mother pulling her child’s hand away from a puddle, a man offering his seat to a stranger, small kindnesses flickering like brief candles in the dark.

Jack: “Funny, isn’t it? The world has temples taller than mountains, cathedrals that could house entire cities — and yet, one small act of kindness can hold more truth than all the sermons combined.”

Jeeny: “Because kindness doesn’t preach. It listens. It doesn’t divide people into saved and lost. It just reaches out.”

Host: She said it softly, but her voice carried weight — the kind that lands gently, then stays.

Jack: “You make it sound holy.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. Maybe kindness is the only real religion left.”

Host: The sunlight dimmed as a cloud passed, turning the station momentarily grey.

Jack: “Then why don’t people practice it more? If it’s so pure, so necessary?”

Jeeny: “Because kindness demands humility. It asks you to see yourself in others — even in the ones you hate. And that terrifies people.”

Jack: “Yeah… empathy’s bad for business.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “But it’s good for the soul. And the soul’s what Wilcox was talking about. She saw through the illusions — the gods, the creeds, the winding paths. She wasn’t dismissing faith, just reminding us that it’s meaningless without compassion.”

Host: The sound of footsteps filled the station. A young woman dropped her ticket, and before she could bend, an old man picked it up and handed it to her with a nod. She smiled — just a small, unguarded smile — and for a moment, the world seemed perfectly, silently aligned.

Host: Jack noticed it. His eyes softened, the faintest hint of peace shadowing his face.

Jack: “You know, moments like that… they almost make me believe there’s something divine in us after all.”

Jeeny: “There is. It’s just quieter than the noise we make.”

Host: The rain began again — slow, rhythmic, washing the dust from the glass.

Jack: “You ever think humanity’s just… tired? Like we’ve been arguing for centuries and forgot what we were fighting for?”

Jeeny: “We haven’t forgotten. We’ve just forgotten how to stop. We confuse being right with being good.”

Jack: “So, kindness over creed?”

Jeeny: “Always. Creed can make you proud. Kindness makes you human.”

Host: Jack leaned back, his eyes distant, the weight of her words pressing softly against his usual cynicism.

Jack: “You think kindness can really fix the world?”

Jeeny: “Not fix. Heal. There’s a difference.”

Jack: “What’s the difference?”

Jeeny: “Fixing implies control — that you can undo the damage. Healing accepts the scars and chooses to care anyway.”

Host: A long pause stretched between them. The rain outside thickened, the station’s hum fading beneath its rhythm.

Jack: “You always manage to turn despair into something poetic.”

Jeeny: “That’s because despair and beauty share the same root — the ache for something more tender than what we’ve become.”

Host: He looked at her, really looked — and for once, the skepticism in his gaze softened into something resembling faith.

Jack: “Maybe kindness isn’t the art the world needs. Maybe it’s the art the world’s forgotten it already knows.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the same thing.”

Host: The station speakers crackled, announcing a train. They both stood — neither rushing, neither lingering. The world around them moved, as it always did, full of paths winding and winding, people chasing different gods, different dreams.

Host: But for one quiet moment, the two of them simply stood together — not arguing, not convincing — just understanding.

Jeeny: “If we could all start there — just start with kindness — maybe the rest would find its way.”

Jack: “Maybe. Or maybe the journey’s supposed to be winding. Maybe that’s how we learn the art.”

Host: She smiled, and he returned it — weary, honest, unforced. The train doors opened, and they stepped aboard as the world outside blurred into motion.

Host: Through the rain-streaked window, the station lights shimmered — small, trembling halos in the dark. Each one a little prayer for gentleness, glowing against the endless, complicated night.

Host: And as the train pulled away, the words of Ella Wheeler Wilcox seemed to drift like a benediction over the departing scene:

Host: “So many gods, so many creeds, so many paths that wind and wind — while just the art of being kind is all the sad world needs.”