The meaning of things lies not in the things themselves, but in

Host: The morning fog clung low to the harbor, wrapping the boats in veils of soft gray. The sound of distant gulls echoed through the mist, thin and uncertain, as if the world hadn’t yet decided to wake. The sea was calm — not peaceful, but still, like a thought paused midway through its formation.

On the wooden dock, two figures sat — Jack, his elbows resting on his knees, staring out into the water; and Jeeny, a thermos of coffee warming her hands. Between them, a coiled rope and a notebook sat on the planks — tools of habit, symbols of patience.

The world felt muted — every sound slightly distant, every motion deliberate. And yet, beneath the quiet, something pulsed — that fragile tension between stillness and meaning.

Jeeny: (gazing into the mist) “Antoine de Saint-Exupéry once said, ‘The meaning of things lies not in the things themselves, but in our attitude towards them.’”

Jack: (half-smiling) “That sounds like something philosophers say when they’re trying to make misery sound poetic.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe it’s what poets say when they’re trying to redeem misery.”

Jack: “Meaning as attitude, huh? So if I decide this fog is beautiful instead of depressing, suddenly it is?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The fog doesn’t change. You do.”

Jack: “But isn’t that just lying to yourself?”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It’s choosing how to see. That’s not deceit — that’s power.”

Host: The fog shifted, parting slightly to reveal the outline of a fishing boat, its engine humming low. A man stood at the stern, casting his line into the gray water with the slow grace of someone who’d done it a thousand times.

Jack: “I don’t know, Jeeny. That kind of thinking feels dangerous. If everything’s just about attitude, doesn’t that make truth irrelevant?”

Jeeny: “Not irrelevant — interpretive. We can’t control the facts of the world, but we can control what we let them mean to us.”

Jack: “So you’d tell someone drowning in grief that it’s all about how they ‘see it’?”

Jeeny: “No. I’d tell them that grief is real — but so is the way they walk through it. Two people can experience the same pain and emerge different. That’s attitude.”

Jack: “And what if someone can’t change how they see? What if the darkness feels truer than any forced light?”

Jeeny: “Then the darkness becomes their teacher — not their prison.”

Host: A faint beam of sunlight began to push through the fog, slicing thin gold lines across the still water. The reflection danced across Jack’s boots, small ripples glinting like liquid glass.

Jack: “You really think everything’s subjective?”

Jeeny: “Not everything. Just everything that matters.”

Jack: (raising an eyebrow) “That’s convenient.”

Jeeny: “No, it’s responsibility. If meaning depends on attitude, then we’re not victims of circumstance. We’re creators of perspective.”

Jack: “Sounds like optimism in disguise.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But optimism isn’t blindness — it’s rebellion. Choosing hope is the loudest way to defy despair.”

Host: The wind picked up, carrying the salt of the sea and the creak of the old wooden pier. The world around them began to emerge from its haze — the colors faint but returning: rust, brown, pale blue, gold.

Jack: “You know, I used to think meaning was out there — in the big things. Success. Recognition. Purpose. The kind of stuff they build monuments for.”

Jeeny: “And now?”

Jack: “Now I’m not sure. The more I chase meaning, the smaller it feels. Like it keeps slipping between definitions.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s because you’re chasing it in the wrong direction.”

Jack: “Meaning isn’t a direction. It’s a destination.”

Jeeny: “No — it’s a reflection.”

Host: She leaned forward, her gaze fixed on the water. The reflection of the rising sun shimmered — golden, trembling, reshaping itself with every ripple.

Jeeny: “You see that? The sun isn’t in the water, but the reflection still glows. Meaning’s the same way — it’s how we mirror what’s given to us.”

Jack: (softly) “So the meaning of the water isn’t in the water…”

Jeeny: “It’s in how you look at it.”

Jack: “Then maybe I’ve been staring at the wrong surface my whole life.”

Jeeny: “No. You’ve been staring without seeing.”

Host: A moment passed, long and unbroken. The fog thinned completely, revealing the full sweep of the harbor — the boats, the gulls, the slow pulse of tide. The morning was no longer gray, but softly alive.

Jack: “You know, Saint-Exupéry was a pilot. Maybe that’s why he understood perspective. When you’re in the air, the world stops being about things and starts being about distance.”

Jeeny: “Yes. He saw that attitude changes altitude. Literally.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “You always do that.”

Jeeny: “Do what?”

Jack: “Turn philosophy into poetry.”

Jeeny: “Maybe because they’re the same thing — both are just ways of asking why beauty and pain keep showing up together.”

Host: The fishing boat returned, its motor cutting the quiet. The man on board waved once to them as he passed. Jeeny waved back; Jack didn’t. But he smiled. It was small, unguarded, fleeting — but it was real.

Jack: “So if meaning is attitude, then everything depends on how we respond. Even suffering.”

Jeeny: “Especially suffering. Pain is what proves we still get to choose how to see.”

Jack: “And if we can’t find beauty in it?”

Jeeny: “Then we create it.”

Host: The sunlight deepened, turning the dock into a palette of warmth — wood gleaming, water glistening, faces alive with color. A flock of birds rose suddenly, wings slicing through the gold air, scattering light like brushstrokes.

Jack: (quietly) “You ever wonder if that’s all life is — attitude stitched together with time?”

Jeeny: “Yes. And that’s what makes it sacred.”

Jack: “Sacred?”

Jeeny: “Because it means the divine hides in perception — in the courage to find beauty where others see nothing.”

Host: The sea shimmered brighter now, no longer reflecting fog but sky — blue and infinite.

And in that moment, Saint-Exupéry’s words seemed to settle between them — not as philosophy, but as lived truth:

That meaning is not carved into stone,
but breathed into being by the gaze that beholds it.
That the world offers neutral moments,
and the soul colors them into purpose.
That what we touch, lose, or love
matters only through the light we bring to it.

Host: The wind calmed. The gulls returned to their circling dance above the water.

Jeeny stood, brushing the salt from her coat.

Jeeny: “Come on. The day’s waiting. Let’s go make it mean something.”

Jack: (after a pause, standing too) “You really think it’s that simple?”

Jeeny: “No. But it’s that possible.”

Host: They walked along the dock, their footsteps slow, deliberate, echoing softly over the planks. The world — once gray, now gold — seemed to lean closer, listening.

And as they disappeared into the brightness, the sea whispered behind them, carrying Saint-Exupéry’s echo through the air:

Meaning is not found.
It is chosen.