The older I get, the less I know. By that I mean the less I am

Host: The night hung heavy over the city, its neon veins pulsing like a restless heart beneath the fog. Rain slicked the streets, turning pavement into mirror, light into blurred dream. In a corner café, half-closed for the night, the air was thick with the smell of coffee and old wood. A single bulb swung slowly, its light catching the steam from two cups untouched for too long.
Jack sat leaning back, one arm draped across the chair, eyes fixed on the window where raindrops slid like tiny comets. Jeeny sat across from him, hands wrapped around her cup, her gaze distant, her voice quiet — as if she were listening to something beyond the sound of the rain.

Jeeny: “Pam Ferris once said, ‘The older I get, the less I know. The less I am sure of.’”
She paused, her fingers tracing the rim of the cup. “I think that’s the truest thing I’ve ever heard, Jack. The older I get, the more I realize how little certainty we should have — especially about faith and politics. It’s dangerous to be so sure.”

Jack: “Dangerous?” He let out a short, dry laugh. “No, Jeeny, what’s dangerous is being lost in doubt. People who question everything end up believing nothing. And when you believe nothing, you’ll stand for nothing.”

Host: The bulb above them flickered, its light catching the lines of Jack’s face, sharp as chisels in the shadow. Jeeny’s eyes didn’t flinch — they glowed, soft yet unyielding.

Jeeny: “And what have the people who were sure of themselves brought us, Jack? Wars, colonies, revolutions that devoured their own children. Every tyrant started by being certain. Certainty kills curiosity, and without curiosity, the soul starves.”

Jack: “You think uncertainty feeds the soul? Tell that to the doctor who has to choose between two treatments in an emergency room. Tell that to a leader in crisis, who can’t afford to ‘keep an open mind’ while the world burns around him. No, Jeeny, doubt is a luxury for those who don’t have to make decisions.”

Jeeny: “And certainty is a mask for fear. You hide behind it so you don’t have to listen, don’t have to change. You talk about leaders — look at the ones who were sure of their truths: the Church that burned people for questioning the Earth’s orbit, the nations that justified genocide in the name of faith or progress. That’s not strength, Jack. That’s blindness with a banner.”

Host: The rain began to drum harder against the window, as if the sky itself were arguing with them. A bus passed, splashing water onto the glass, leaving a trail of light that faded like memory. Jack’s jaw tightened.

Jack: “You talk like the world can afford endless gray zones. But life doesn’t work that way. You need conviction. You need to draw lines. Otherwise, people just float — waiting for someone else to decide what’s right.”

Jeeny: “Conviction isn’t the same as arrogance, Jack. It’s possible to believe deeply and still question yourself. Socrates said, ‘I know that I know nothing.’ That wasn’t weakness — it was wisdom. The moment we stop doubting, we stop growing.”

Jack: “Socrates also died for that belief. Maybe too much doubt gets you killed.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But at least it keeps you human.”

Host: The words hung between them, thick as smoke. The waitress was wiping down the counter, her motions slow, dreamlike. A clock on the wall ticked, the second hand slicing the silence.

Jeeny’s voice softened, but her eyes stayed firm.

Jeeny: “Do you remember the Iraq War, Jack? All that certainty — that they had weapons of mass destruction. How many lives were spent on a lie? How much pain born from men who couldn’t say, ‘I might be wrong’? That’s what I mean. Certainty is the most polite word for tragedy.”

Jack: “You’re romanticizing indecision. Sure, people make mistakes, but we can’t live afraid of being wrong. If every choice demands perfect proof, no one ever acts. The world runs on those willing to commit, not those who just contemplate.”

Jeeny: “Commit to what, though? To truth — or to ego? You can’t build anything real on arrogance. Even the scientists you’d respect — Einstein, Darwin — they all began from doubt. Their genius came from humility, from knowing how little they knew.”

Jack: “And they still drew conclusions. They didn’t just sit around saying, ‘Well, maybe, maybe not.’ They tested, they proved, they declared.”

Jeeny: “But every declaration they made carried a question behind it. They never said, ‘This is forever.’ They said, ‘This is true — for now.’ There’s a difference, Jack. That’s what open-mindedness means.”

Host: Jack leaned forward, his grey eyes narrowing. A muscle in his jaw twitched. Outside, a police siren cut through the night, its wail echoing through the alleyways like a cry of some wounded thing.

Jack: “So where’s your line, Jeeny? If you never commit, if everything is just ‘maybe,’ then what do you stand for? What’s worth fighting for?”

Jeeny: “For the right to keep learning. For the grace to admit I’m wrong. For the freedom to change without shame. That’s worth more than being right.”

Host: Her voice trembled, not from fear, but from passion. Jack’s eyes softened — just slightly — as if something in her words had reached a crack inside him.

Jack: “You really think that’s enough to hold a world together?”

Jeeny: “Maybe not to hold it, Jack. But enough to save what’s left of its soul.”

Host: A moment of silence. The rain had lightened, turning into a soft drizzle, like the city was catching its breath. Jack looked down at his cup, his reflection rippling in the dark liquid.

Jack: “You know… when I was a kid, I used to think my father knew everything. He spoke like the world was simple, like truth was something you could hold. I loved that. Then one day, I saw him cry because he couldn’t answer my question about death. It… broke something in me.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it didn’t break you, Jack. Maybe it opened you.”

Host: Her hand reached across the table, resting lightly on his. Jack didn’t pull away. The light above them steadied, no longer flickering — a quiet truce between shadow and glow.

Jeeny: “The older we get, the less we should try to know — and the more we should try to understand.”

Jack: “And maybe… the more we should listen.”

Host: The rain had stopped now. A thin beam of moonlight found its way through the window, glinting off the empty cups. Outside, the city was still awake, but softer, gentler, as if it too had learned to doubt its own noise.

In the silence, Jack and Jeeny sat, hands touching, their words no longer weapons, but bridges — fragile, beautiful, and enough.

Host: “Perhaps,” the voice of the night whispered, “it is not what we are sure of that makes us wise, but what we are willing to question.”