The next time you experience a blackout, take some solace by

Host: The city had lost its light. Darkness spread like ink, swallowing the streets, the windows, the restless rhythm of human noise. Somewhere in the distance, a siren cried and then fell silent. The power outage had come without warning, leaving the world suspended between stillness and memory.

Host: On the rooftop of an old apartment building, Jack stood near the edge, a cigarette glowing faintly between his fingers. His grey eyes stared upward, tracing the sudden unfolding of stars across the sky—sharp, wild, infinite. Jeeny sat on the concrete ledge nearby, a blanket draped over her shoulders, her dark hair shimmering with the faint light of the cosmos above.

Host: The air was cool, touched with the scent of rain yet to come. The city, stripped of its noise, seemed almost sacred. In that silence, the universe had stepped closer.

Jeeny: “It’s strange, isn’t it?” (she lifted her eyes to the sky) “When the lights go out, we remember the stars.”

Jack: “Or maybe we just realize how much we’ve been blinding ourselves.”

Jeeny: “Taleb once said, ‘The next time you experience a blackout, take some solace by looking at the sky. You will not recognize it.’”

Jack: (a quiet laugh) “Yeah, sounds like him. The philosopher of chaos. Always finding poetry in disasters.”

Jeeny: “Maybe because chaos reminds us we’re alive.”

Host: A soft breeze moved through the night, carrying the distant sound of dogs barking, doors closing, the faint hum of generators waking. But above it all, the sky—vast, untamed—stared back like a forgotten god.

Jack: “You call this solace? The city’s dark, people are panicking, phones dying, everything stopped. And you find comfort in… stars?”

Jeeny: “Not in the stars, Jack. In the reminder that the world doesn’t need our lights to exist. It’s been shining long before us.”

Jack: “That’s a comforting delusion. The stars don’t care if we’re here or not. They’re just burning gas millions of miles away.”

Jeeny: “And yet we look at them and feel something. That’s the miracle you keep ignoring.”

Host: Jack exhaled, a thin stream of smoke vanishing into the air, like a thought dissolving before it formed. His voice came low, almost tender but edged with skepticism.

Jack: “You know what I see when I look at that sky? Indifference. A massive, cold expanse that doesn’t care who lives or dies. People romanticize it because they can’t face how small they are.”

Jeeny: “Or they face it and find beauty in their smallness. That’s the difference between despair and wonder.”

Jack: “You sound like a priest of the cosmos.”

Jeeny: “And you sound like someone afraid to believe in anything larger than himself.”

Host: The tension between them hung like the humidity before a storm. Jack’s jaw tightened; Jeeny’s eyes glowed with conviction. The stars, cold witnesses to human quarrels, flickered indifferently.

Jack: “Tell me, Jeeny, where’s the solace in collapse? People lose power, lose control, and suddenly they find meaning? You think that’s enlightenment? It’s desperation.”

Jeeny: “No, it’s humility. When the lights go out, all the noise of our inventions fades. We’re forced to look up, to remember we’re not the center of anything.”

Jack: “So we need a blackout to learn gratitude?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes yes. Sometimes the world has to go dark before we can see what’s real.”

Host: A plane crossed overhead, its blinkers momentarily cutting the darkness, before vanishing into the black sea of the sky. The silence that followed felt almost ancient, as though the modern world had momentarily died and time itself had reverted to starlight.

Jack: “You talk about seeing what’s real. But what’s real is that people depend on light—on control, on order. When it’s gone, all you have left is the abyss. Most people can’t stand to look at it.”

Jeeny: “And yet, you’re standing here looking.”

Jack: “Only because I can’t sleep.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Or maybe because part of you still remembers what the night used to mean.”

Host: Jack turned, his face half-lit by the faint glow of a nearby candle. In his eyes, there was weariness, but beneath it—something raw. Something like recognition.

Jack: “You ever think about how the stars we see are already dead? That light is ancient—millions of years old. We’re just seeing ghosts.”

Jeeny: “Yes. And isn’t that beautiful? Even the dead can still light our nights.”

Host: Her words settled between them like ashes—quiet, heavy, yet strangely warm.

Jack: “You always find a way to make decay sound poetic.”

Jeeny: “Because life is poetic, Jack. Even its ruins.”

Host: The wind picked up, rattling a loose metal sheet nearby. Somewhere below, a child laughed, then fell into silence. The world was breathing again, slowly, unevenly, like a patient waking after a long sleep.

Jeeny: “Taleb’s right. We wouldn’t recognize the sky because we’ve spent years forgetting it. We drown ourselves in neon and think that’s illumination.”

Jack: “It’s survival. People need light to work, to move, to live. Darkness is dangerous.”

Jeeny: “Only because we made it so. Our ancestors navigated by those stars. They found direction in the very thing we now fear.”

Jack: “Yeah, and half of them died trying.”

Jeeny: “But they lived with wonder. Can you say the same for us?”

Host: Jeeny’s voice quivered—not from weakness, but from truth pressing against the fragile walls of her heart. Jack turned away, his eyes locked on a single star—bright, unwavering, like an accusation.

Jack: “Maybe wonder’s a luxury, Jeeny. Maybe survival killed it.”

Jeeny: “Then what’s the point of surviving without it?”

Host: The pause that followed was almost sacred. The wind stilled. The city, stripped bare of all illusion, seemed to hold its breath.

Jack: (softly) “You think that’s what he meant—Taleb? That in darkness, we’re reminded of what we lost?”

Jeeny: “No. I think he meant that when everything fails, we’re given the gift of clarity. The blackout isn’t punishment—it’s revelation.”

Jack: “Revelation?”

Jeeny: “Yes. That we live surrounded by light, but blind to illumination.”

Host: Jeeny stood, her figure a silhouette against the starlit sky, fragile yet resolute. Jack’s cigarette ember flickered and died, leaving only the faint scent of smoke and regret.

Jack: “You really believe that? That we need collapse to remember beauty?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes collapse is the only language the universe has left to speak.”

Host: Her words pierced the air, sharp as glass. Jack’s shoulders dropped; the fight in his tone softened into something quieter, more human.

Jack: “You always manage to make despair sound like hope.”

Jeeny: “Because they’re siblings, Jack. You can’t find one without the other.”

Host: Lightning flashed far on the horizon, illuminating the distant clouds. For a moment, both their faces glowed—his marked by cynicism, hers by faith—and in that flash, they were equals. Two fragments of the same truth.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what Taleb was trying to say. That the sky is always there, unrecognizable not because it changes, but because we’ve stopped looking.”

Jack: “And when the blackout comes…”

Jeeny: “We remember.”

Host: Jack nodded, a quiet motion, as if conceding not defeat but understanding. The wind brushed against them again, and the first drops of rain began to fall—gentle, uncertain, like tears that didn’t know whether they belonged to sorrow or peace.

Jack: “Maybe it’s not chaos after all. Maybe it’s the universe’s way of forcing us to look up.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Sometimes the dark is mercy.”

Host: The rain fell harder, cloaking the city in its soft veil. The rooftop lights, the streets below, everything seemed to vanish into the night—except the stars, still burning through the storm.

Host: And in that blackout, they both saw what they had forgotten—the vast, indifferent, magnificent sky—and for a fleeting moment, they were no longer afraid of the dark.