There is a boundary to men's passions when they act from

Host:
The night was wide and restless. Through the high windows of the abandoned theater, the moonlight poured in slanted beams, turning the dust into constellations. The seats, long empty, held only shadows now, and the air smelled faintly of wood, velvet, and the ghosts of applause.

At center stage stood Jack, his coat unbuttoned, his hands trembling slightly as he lit a cigarette that glowed like a small defiance against the dark. His eyes, those storm-grey mirrors, reflected the flicker of flame — wild, searching, and worn by too much thought.

Jeeny sat on the edge of the stage, one leg dangling over, her hair spilling down her shoulders like black ink against the faded gold of the curtain. Her voice, when she spoke, was calm, but it carried the weight of something old and knowing — like the hush that follows confession.

Jeeny:
(Softly)
Edmund Burke once said, “There is a boundary to men’s passions when they act from feelings; but none when they are under the influence of imagination.”

(She looks toward him)
Do you think that’s true, Jack? That imagination makes passion infinite — or just dangerous?

Jack:
(Smiling faintly)
Burke always had a way of making emotion sound like politics. But yes, I think he was right. Feeling burns itself out; imagination feeds the fire.

Jeeny:
So imagination doesn’t just dream — it consumes.

Jack:
It always does. A feeling ends when it meets reality. Imagination doesn’t believe in endings.

Jeeny:
(Quietly)
And yet we worship it.

Jack:
Because we mistake it for eternity.

Host:
The wind moved through the broken windows, stirring the old curtains like sighs. The smoke from Jack’s cigarette curled upward, merging with the pale light. Jeeny watched it rise — her gaze steady, contemplative.

Jeeny:
Maybe that’s why people fall in love with ideas more easily than with people. Ideas can’t leave you.

Jack:
(Laughing softly)
No, they just leave you insane.

Jeeny:
(Smiling)
Insane — or immortal. Depends on the imagination.

Jack:
(Quietly)
No, Jeeny. It always ends the same way. Imagination turns feelings into gods. And gods always demand sacrifice.

Jeeny:
(Smiling faintly)
And yet you keep creating them.

Jack:
Because destruction’s a small price for transcendence.

Host:
A long silence stretched between them — electric, breathing. Somewhere above, a loose beam creaked, and the echo filled the room like a heartbeat.

Jack flicked ash into the darkness. Jeeny’s eyes followed the ember as it fell, her voice barely above a whisper.

Jeeny:
You talk like imagination is a curse.

Jack:
It is — for anyone who feels too deeply. Passion burns, but imagination... it expands the fire beyond the body.

Jeeny:
(Smiling gently)
You make it sound divine.

Jack:
Divine things are rarely kind.

Jeeny:
And yet they create meaning.

Jack:
Meaning’s just the shape of our madness.

Jeeny:
(Quietly)
Then maybe madness is the price of beauty.

Host:
The light shifted; a cloud passed across the moon, dimming the silver stage. For a moment, the world seemed to pause — breath held between logic and longing.

Jack looked at her — not as a philosopher, but as a man undone by his own honesty.

Jack:
You know, feelings have a natural rhythm. You grieve, you heal. You love, you tire. But imagination doesn’t stop. It keeps replaying, rewriting. It drags you back into moments that don’t exist anymore — or never did.

Jeeny:
Because imagination refuses the finality of time.

Jack:
Exactly. It stretches emotion until it breaks.

Jeeny:
(Softly)
Or until it transcends.

Jack:
(Skeptical)
Transcendence is just madness in better lighting.

Jeeny:
(Laughing softly)
You’d say that. You’re terrified of anything you can’t measure.

Jack:
I’m terrified of anything that can’t end.

Jeeny:
Then you’re afraid of imagination itself.

Host:
Her words hung there — unflinching, luminous. Jack froze, halfway to replying, the cigarette burning down between his fingers.

The truth of her accusation trembled in the air like dust caught in light.

Jack:
Maybe I am. Because imagination gives birth to everything — hope, art, love — but it also breeds obsession, delusion, despair. The same mind that builds paradise can’t help but paint hell.

Jeeny:
(Quietly)
Maybe heaven and hell are both the mind’s way of refusing to be ordinary.

Jack:
(Softly)
Or of refusing peace.

Jeeny:
(Leaning forward)
You say that like peace is the goal. Maybe passion is the point — the very lack of boundary Burke was warning about.

Jack:
And you think boundless passion’s worth the ruin?

Jeeny:
(Without hesitation)
Always. Because ruin, at least, is alive.

Host:
Her words struck him like thunder muffled by distance — powerful, inevitable. The rain began outside, slow at first, then heavier, drumming on the roof like the applause of forgotten souls.

Jack walked to the edge of the stage, staring into the empty theater. The dark beyond the lights felt infinite — a metaphor too perfect to ignore.

Jack:
You know, Burke’s right about one thing — passion that comes from feeling knows mercy. Imagination doesn’t. It turns love into eternity, anger into vengeance, faith into fire.

Jeeny:
But without imagination, feeling never rises above survival. It’s the difference between hunger and art.

Jack:
And art, for you, justifies the madness?

Jeeny:
(Smiling faintly)
It redeems it.

Jack:
Then what redeems art?

Jeeny:
Silence. The moment after the creation, when you realize you’ve touched something infinite — and it almost killed you.

Host:
The rain intensified, echoing through the old hall. The roof leaked near the aisle; drops fell one by one, steady as a metronome marking time’s slow retreat.

Jack turned back to her, his face softened by fatigue, his tone no longer argumentative but intimate — almost reverent.

Jack:
You ever wonder what passion becomes once imagination stops feeding it?

Jeeny:
It becomes peace. But peace is too quiet for most hearts.

Jack:
(Smiling faintly)
So we keep imagining, because silence scares us more than pain.

Jeeny:
Maybe pain is silence’s echo — imagination’s last cry before surrender.

Jack:
And surrender’s the death of creation.

Jeeny:
No, Jack. It’s the beginning of truth.

Host:
The storm reached its peak — rain hammering against glass, thunder murmuring over the hills. The stage lights flickered once, dimmed, and steadied again, casting long shadows that reached like memories toward the edges of the room.

Jeeny rose, walking toward him. Her bare footsteps made no sound on the wood. She stopped beside him, eyes on the darkness beyond.

Jeeny:
Burke said there’s a boundary to feeling, but not to imagination. Maybe that’s why we keep returning to art, to love, to longing — because somewhere in us, we want something that can’t be contained.

Jack:
And it’s that wanting that ruins us.

Jeeny:
(Smiling softly)
Yes. But it’s also what makes us divine.

Jack:
(Whispering)
Divine or delusional — I can never tell.

Jeeny:
Maybe both. Maybe that’s what being human means.

Host:
The rain began to fade, leaving only the faint hiss of water dripping from the eaves. The world seemed cleaner for the storm — purged, but not peaceful.

Jack turned toward her, eyes tired but shining, as though he’d glimpsed something sacred in the exhaustion.

Jack:
So there really are no boundaries.

Jeeny:
Not for imagination. Not for love. Not for grief. We build walls to contain them — but they only climb higher, burning the sky.

Jack:
(Smiling faintly)
Then maybe imagination’s both our cage and our key.

Jeeny:
Exactly. It enslaves us to feeling — and frees us from it.

Host:
They stood there, two silhouettes in a pool of fading moonlight — the architect of logic and the keeper of dreams.

Outside, the storm sighed its last. The moon, freed from cloud, spilled light through the cracked ceiling, touching the stage with silver grace.

Host:
And in that fragile peace, they both understood what Edmund Burke had meant:

That passion born of feeling has its limits —
it burns within the body and dies with the breath.
But passion ignited by imagination knows no restraint,
for it feeds not on reality, but on its own infinite reflection.

That imagination is both ecstasy and exile —
the divine fever that makes men build, destroy, and dream again,
forever seeking a boundary that does not exist.

Host:
The lights dimmed. The theater fell silent.
And in that sacred, trembling quiet,
Jack and Jeeny stood together at the edge of the dark —
their hearts beating beyond feeling,
within the boundless fire of imagination itself.