The man who makes everything that leads to happiness depends upon

Host: The morning sun poured through the blinds of a small apartment overlooking the city. Dust floated in the air, each particle catching the light like a tiny universe suspended in the quiet. The room smelled faintly of coffee and paper — the scent of thought and solitude.

Jack stood by the window, his shirt half-buttoned, a notebook open on the table beside him. Jeeny sat on the couch, her hands wrapped around a mug, her eyes tracing the lines of an old Greek text that lay open between them.

Outside, the world moved — cars, people, noise, speed. Inside, stillness.

Jeeny: “Plato wrote, ‘The man who makes everything that leads to happiness depend upon himself, and not upon other men, has adopted the very best plan for living happily. This is the man of moderation, the man of manly character and of wisdom.’”

Jack: “A man who needs no one, huh? That’s not wisdom, Jeeny. That’s loneliness with a better brand name.”

Host: The sunlight shifted, sliding across his face, revealing the lines of weariness beneath his calm. Jeeny smiled, but there was sadness in it, like understanding that has come from pain.

Jeeny: “It’s not about isolation, Jack. It’s about independence — about not letting your peace hang on other people’s storms.”

Jack: “You make it sound noble. But tell me, Jeeny, have you ever tried living that way? Every happiness we have — love, friendship, trust — depends on someone else. Even this,” he gestures between them, “depends on you being here.”

Jeeny: “Yes. But that’s the point. If my happiness depends on you being kind, on life being fair, then it’s fragile. Plato’s man isn’t cold — he’s anchored. He feels, but he doesn’t drown.”

Host: A bus rumbled past below, shaking the windowpane. A pigeon landed, fluttered, and then flew away again — as if to illustrate their debate.

Jack: “Anchored, or numb? The line is thin. You talk about moderation like it’s a virtue, but moderation is just fear of excess. Nothing great was ever built by people who feared feeling too much.”

Jeeny: “And nothing was ever kept, Jack, by people who couldn’t control themselves. Empires, relationships, even minds — they all collapse when desire runs wild.”

Host: Her voice was gentle, but her words were iron. Jack turned, his jaw tight, his eyes hardening — not from anger, but from the sting of being understood.

Jack: “Moderation is for people who’ve never tasted hunger. Try telling a soldier he needs moderation when he’s fighting for his life. Or an artist when he’s burning to create. You think wisdom is in balance, I think it’s in fire.”

Jeeny: “And yet every fire, if it doesn’t find its boundary, destroys what it touches. Even love, Jack — too much of it becomes possession. Too little, emptiness. Plato wasn’t preaching coldness. He was teaching equilibrium — the middle space where the heart beats, but the mind still listens.”

Host: The room seemed to pause, held between light and shadow. The clock ticked — steady, indifferent — as though time itself were moderation made audible.

Jack: “So, what then? A life of discipline, of control? No risk, no madness? You’d trade ecstasy for calm, passion for peace?”

Jeeny: “I’d trade chaos for clarity. Peace isn’t the absence of passion, Jack — it’s the direction of it. The man of moderation doesn’t avoid the world; he simply refuses to be owned by it.”

Host: A shaft of light fell across her face, turning her brown eyes into amber, alive and steady.

Jeeny: “Think of Marcus Aurelius — a man who commanded armies and still wrote about inner calm. He had power, but it didn’t consume him. That’s what Plato meant — strength without dependence, joy without attachment.”

Jack: “And yet Marcus died alone, his empire crumbling. What good is wisdom if it can’t save what you love?”

Jeeny: “Perhaps the point isn’t to save, but to endure. To accept what you can’t keep and still find gratitude. The man of moderation doesn’t try to own happiness — he honors it when it comes, and lets it go when it leaves.”

Host: Jack looked down, silent for a moment, his fingers tracing the edge of his glass. The sound of the city outside — horns, voices, life — bled softly into the room, like the hum of an unseen ocean.

Jack: “Maybe that’s the hardest part — to want without clinging. To love without needing. You make it sound so simple, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “It’s not simple. It’s human. That’s why it’s wisdom — not a rule. It’s something we strive for, not something we master.”

Host: She set her mug down, the ceramic making a soft sound against the wood — the kind of sound that ends an argument without defeat.

Jeeny: “We live in a world that teaches dependence — on validation, on success, on noise. Plato’s man is rare now. But he’s the one who can walk through chaos and still feel at peace. Because his happiness isn’t rented — it’s earned.”

Jack: “You make it sound like self-reliance is salvation. But isolation is its shadow, Jeeny. The more you rely on yourself, the less the world can reach you.”

Jeeny: “And maybe that’s the balance — not to shut out the world, but not to beg it either. To stand in it — free, but still connected. Like a tree, not a wall.”

Host: The sun had risen higher now, filling the room with a quiet gold. The steam from the coffee had faded, but the warmth remained, like the residue of understanding that lingers after a long battle of words.

Jack: “So that’s the best plan for living happily, huh? To be rooted but not owned. To be moderate, but not empty.”

Jeeny: “Yes. To be strong enough to need nothing, and wise enough to still love everything.”

Host: Jack smiled, the kind of smile that comes from concession, not defeat. He closed the notebook, the paper inside crinkling like memory.

Outside, the city stirred — horns, footsteps, life — but inside, there was a rare stillness.

Jack: “You know, Plato would have liked you.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. He would’ve liked you. You just haven’t realized how close you already are to his man of wisdom.”

Host: Jack looked at her, a quiet light in his eyes, and for a moment, the noise of the world seemed far away.

The sunlight poured across the floor, turning everything — the books, the cups, the dust in the air — into something almost holy.

And in that golden stillness, both of them understood:

Happiness does not come from the world, nor from its people,
but from the strength to stand among them — untouched, open, and free.