The remarkable thing is, we have a choice everyday regarding the

Host: The morning light spilled like molten honey across the quiet apartment, slipping through half-drawn curtains, painting long shadows across the floorboards. The city outside was just beginning to wake—a symphony of footsteps, engines, and voices merging into a slow, rhythmic hum.

On the balcony, a small table held two mugs of coffee, their steam curling upward like fleeting ghosts. Jack leaned against the railing, his grey eyes fixed on the distant skyline, every line of his body taut with unspoken weariness. Jeeny sat opposite, her hands wrapped around her mug, her hair gently tousled by the morning breeze.

The day had just begun, yet something in the air carried the weight of an unspoken question—one that hung like mist between them.

Jeeny: “Charles Swindoll once said, ‘The remarkable thing is, we have a choice every day regarding the attitude we will embrace for that day.’”

Jack: (lets out a short laugh) “A choice? You make it sound simple. As if attitude alone can rewrite what the world throws at you.”

Host: His voice was gravelly, laced with that familiar cynicism—a tone that came from too many mornings spent wrestling the weight of reality. Jeeny’s eyes softened, but her gaze did not waver.

Jeeny: “It isn’t simple. But it’s still a choice. We can’t control what happens, Jack, but we can choose how to meet it.”

Jack: “And what if what happens is a storm? You tell that to someone who just lost their job, or their child, or their faith. You think they can just flip a switch and choose to smile through it?”

Jeeny: “No, not a switch. A decision. A quiet rebellion against despair. Look at Viktor Frankl—he found meaning in a concentration camp. He said that everything can be taken from a man except one thing: the last of human freedoms—to choose one’s attitude in any given set of circumstances.”

Host: The wind caught a strand of Jeeny’s hair, brushing it across her face. Jack’s eyes flickered with something—perhaps recognition, perhaps pain—but his voice hardened.

Jack: “Frankl was extraordinary. Most of us aren’t. Most of us crack long before we get to that kind of enlightenment. You can’t tell the broken to be grateful for the shards.”

Jeeny: “I’m not saying gratitude erases pain. I’m saying it gives it shape. Without choice, Jack, we’re just leaves in the wind—blown by everything, owned by nothing.”

Host: The sound of the city grew louder now—a car horn, a child’s laughter, the rise of the sun catching the edge of a glass tower and scattering light across their faces. Jack turned away, lighting a cigarette, the flame trembling briefly before surrendering to the breeze.

Jack: “You talk about choice like it’s power. But I think it’s an illusion. Biology, circumstance, trauma—they mold us. You wake up angry not because you want to, but because something in your past wired you that way. Choice is just the mask we wear to feel in control.”

Jeeny: “And yet here you are—arguing. Questioning. That’s choice too. You’re not your wiring, Jack. You’re the one watching it. That space between impulse and action—that’s where freedom lives.”

Host: The words lingered in the air, fragile yet firm. Jack exhaled a plume of smoke, the grey trail twisting before vanishing into the light. His voice dropped to a murmur.

Jack: “So what—every morning we just… decide to be happy? To ignore the noise, the debts, the regrets?”

Jeeny: “Not ignore. Transcend. There’s a difference. Happiness isn’t the goal—it’s the byproduct of seeing life as a chance, not a punishment. Some people wake up in prison cells and find more peace than those sleeping in penthouses. It’s not the walls, Jack. It’s what you bring to them.”

Jack: (with a dry smile) “You’d make a terrible realist, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “And you’d make a wonderful pessimist—if only it didn’t hurt you so much.”

Host: A subtle tension pulsed between them, like the faint hum of a wire stretched too tight. Jack’s jaw clenched. His eyes drifted to the horizon, where the sun rose like a wound healing in slow light.

Jack: “You talk about choice like it’s some sacred weapon. But some mornings, I don’t have the strength to lift it. Some mornings, I just… exist.”

Jeeny: (softly) “That’s still a choice. To exist. To stay. To take another breath. That’s the quietest, bravest choice of all.”

Host: Her words slipped into the space between them, and for a moment, neither moved. The city continued its dance below—the hum of life pressing forward, indifferent yet unstoppable.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe the only control we ever really have is how we react. But doesn’t that make it crueler? To know we could change our view and still… don’t?”

Jeeny: “It makes it human. We fail, we forget, we fall—but every sunrise gives us another try. That’s what makes it remarkable. Every day, we’re offered a chance to start again.”

Host: The wind shifted. A faint chime rang from the nearby balcony, the sound like a whisper from something unseen. Jack’s expression softened—the hard lines of his face beginning to yield to thought.

Jack: “You really believe attitude can change the day?”

Jeeny: “I’ve seen it. My mother once lost everything—our home, our savings, even her health. But every morning, she’d still sing while making tea. She said the world could take everything except her spirit. I think that’s what Swindoll meant.”

Jack: (quietly) “And did it help?”

Jeeny: “It helped her see light when there shouldn’t have been any. And sometimes, Jack, that’s enough.”

Host: The sunlight now filled the balcony, dissolving the shadows. Jack’s cigarette burned low, the ash trembling before falling away. He looked down at the city, at the thousands of windows catching the same light, each one holding a different story, a different choice.

Jack: “Maybe I’ve been giving too much credit to the storm, and not enough to the sailor.”

Jeeny: “Maybe the storm’s just there to remind the sailor he can still steer.”

Host: A faint smile touched the corners of his mouth—not of triumph, but of quiet acceptance. The morning felt different now: not lighter, but more alive.

Jack: “So, what’s your choice today, Jeeny?”

Jeeny: (smiling) “To see the beauty, even in what’s broken.”

Jack: “And mine?”

Jeeny: “To believe you can.”

Host: The city below came fully awake—a rising chorus of movement and color, of lives in motion, each choosing in their own quiet way. The light bathed them both, golden and forgiving, and for the first time in a long while, Jack didn’t look away.

He took a slow sip of coffee, the steam curling upward like a silent prayer.

Host: In that small moment, beneath the endless hum of life, two souls stood at the edge of a new day—neither victorious nor defeated, but simply aware of their power to choose.

And as the sun climbed higher, burning away the last traces of shadow, it seemed to whisper a truth older than pain itself: that every dawn, we are handed a blank canvas—fragile, fleeting, and waiting for the color of our will.