That is happiness; to be dissolved into something complete and

Host: The sunlight filtered through the old windowpanes of a small studio, dust particles drifting like tiny galaxies in slow motion. The air smelled faintly of turpentine and coffee, with the distant hum of the city breaking softly against the walls. On a long table, brushes, clay, and half-finished sculptures lay in beautiful disorder.

Host: Jack stood near the window, a cigarette burning lazily between his fingers, the smoke curling upward like thoughts that refused to settle. His eyes, gray and reflective, followed the way the light hit the sculpture on the workbench — a figure without a face. Jeeny, in a paint-smeared linen shirt, sat cross-legged on the floor, her hands streaked with clay, her brow furrowed in quiet creation.

Host: Outside, the city moved fast, but in that small room, time slowed — drawn to the quiet gravity of two people trying to define what it means to be whole.

Jeeny: (softly) “You know, Jack, sometimes I think that’s all I’ve ever wanted. To disappear into something bigger, something that feels... complete. To not be me for a while — just part of the creation itself.”

Jack: (exhaling smoke) “You mean like what Cather said — being ‘dissolved into something complete and great’? Yeah, I remember that line. Sounds romantic, but also... dangerous.”

Jeeny: “Dangerous? Why?”

Jack: “Because it’s how people lose themselves. You dissolve long enough, you forget you ever existed. Artists, lovers, dreamers — they all think merging with something greater makes them whole. But it’s still an escape.”

Host: Jeeny looked up, her eyes reflecting both softness and steel, the kind of gaze that carries its own quiet challenge.

Jeeny: “You make it sound like love is weakness, Jack. Like surrender is the same as disappearance. Maybe being dissolved isn’t about erasing yourself — maybe it’s about finding yourself through something beyond you.”

Jack: “Or maybe it’s just a prettier name for dependence. You dissolve into a cause, into someone, into art — but what happens when that ‘something great’ rejects you, changes, or dies? You’re left hollow. That’s not happiness, Jeeny. That’s addiction dressed up as transcendence.”

Jeeny: “And yet every truly alive person I’ve known was a little addicted to something greater than themselves — music, faith, love, even the fight for justice. Look at Mother Teresa, or Van Gogh, or even people who dedicate their lives to science. They dissolved, Jack. They gave up their comfort for something immense.”

Host: The light shifted, falling in amber bands across the room. Jack turned, his profile cut by shadow, the smoke still curling around his face like a halo of doubt.

Jack: “You think Van Gogh was happy when he painted alone in madness? You think devotion equals fulfillment? No. He was consumed. He vanished into his art because he couldn’t stand himself outside of it.”

Jeeny: “Maybe happiness isn’t peace, Jack. Maybe it’s intensity. Maybe it’s that burning, consuming moment when you stop being separate from the thing you love.”

Jack: (grimly) “Sounds like annihilation.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. But isn’t that what every sunrise does? The night gets annihilated so something greater can rise.”

Host: Her words hung in the air, fragile but fierce. The clock ticked in the background, the kind of sound that makes you aware of your own heartbeat. Jack stubbed his cigarette out on a small metal tray, watching the faint ember die like the last word of an argument.

Jack: “You’re poetic as hell, Jeeny. But happiness — real happiness — is balance. It’s not dissolving, it’s standing firm. It’s when you create something and still remain yourself when it’s done.”

Jeeny: “That’s the language of control, Jack. Happiness isn’t about control. It’s about belonging — belonging so deeply that your ‘self’ becomes irrelevant. When I’m sculpting... I’m not Jeeny. I’m the curve of the clay, the breath of the room, the pulse of the moment. It’s not me doing it — it’s life moving through me.”

Jack: (smirking) “You sound like a mystic.”

Jeeny: “Maybe mystics just had better words for what artists feel.”

Host: A beam of light struck the unfinished sculpture, revealing the faint imprint of Jeeny’s fingers on its surface — the evidence of devotion. Jack followed the light, his gaze softening as though seeing something he couldn’t argue with.

Jack: “So what happens when the art’s done? When the love ends? When the cause collapses? Do you just wait to dissolve again? Isn’t that just living from one disappearance to another?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But isn’t that what living is — a series of dissolvings? Childhood into youth, dreams into work, love into memory. We’re always melting into the next thing. You call it loss; I call it growth.”

Jack: “You make it sound noble. But sometimes melting feels like dying.”

Jeeny: “Maybe dying is just the last time we get to dissolve completely.”

Host: The silence that followed wasn’t heavy — it was sacred. The kind of silence that artists and lovers both know too well — the breath before a truth reveals itself. The rain began faintly against the window, its rhythm merging with the slow creak of the old building.

Jack: “You know, there’s something about that word — ‘complete.’ People throw it around like it’s a destination. But what if it’s not about reaching something great, but realizing it was always there — in the act of being?”

Jeeny: “Then being dissolved isn’t about disappearing at all. It’s about realizing the whole was never separate from the part.”

Jack: “You mean... happiness is when the illusion of separation breaks.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Exactly.”

Host: She rose slowly, wiping her hands on a worn cloth, her movements deliberate, graceful — as if she were still shaping something invisible. Jack watched her walk toward the window, where the world outside shimmered under a veil of rain and light.

Jeeny: “Do you see that? The rain doesn’t stop to think where it ends and the sky begins. It just falls. It belongs to the whole thing.”

Jack: (quietly) “So maybe happiness isn’t in control or surrender. Maybe it’s in participation.”

Jeeny: “Yes. To be part of something vast — and not be afraid of losing yourself in it.”

Host: The light outside softened to a honey-colored glow, spilling across their faces. The unfinished sculpture gleamed faintly — imperfect, incomplete, and yet somehow, through its incompleteness, beautiful.

Host: Jack turned to her, his voice lower now, stripped of sarcasm.

Jack: “You know, for someone who believes in dissolving, you’ve never seemed more present.”

Jeeny: (whispering) “Maybe that’s what Cather meant. When you finally dissolve into something complete — you stop searching. You just are.”

Host: The rain stopped. The last drop slid down the glass, catching the final light of the day. The city outside shimmered with newness, as if freshly born.

Host: Inside the small studio, two figures stood still — not arguing, not winning, not needing to. Just being. Just part of the same quiet, infinite whole.

Host: And for a moment, the world — in all its noise, dust, and imperfection — felt complete.