There is no such thing as death; life is only a dream, and we are

Host: The night had folded over the city like a velvet curtain, dense and breathing. The streets glistened under the soft glow of distant lamps, their reflections trembling in puddles that mirrored the trembling of the human soul. Far below the skyline, in a half-forgotten warehouse turned café, the air hung heavy with smoke, coffee, and the faint hum of some old jazz tune that refused to die.

Jack sat by the window, the amber light of a single bulb catching the sharp angles of his face. His eyes, grey and endless, watched the rain streak down the glass — as though the world itself were melting before his eyes.

Jeeny sat across from him, wrapped in a loose scarf, her hands curled around a cup of black coffee that had gone cold. The clock on the wall ticked faintly, marking time in a place that seemed to have none.

Jeeny: “Bill Hicks once said, ‘There is no such thing as death; life is only a dream, and we are the imagination of ourselves.’”

Jack: “That’s the kind of quote people love to hear after three glasses of whiskey.”

Jeeny: “Or after a lifetime of losing things they thought were real.”

Jack: “You mean denial dressed as enlightenment.”

Jeeny: “No. Maybe enlightenment dressed as mercy.”

Host: The rain pressed harder against the window, the rhythm soft but unrelenting — like a heart reminding them both that it was still beating.

Jack: “You really buy that? That death’s an illusion?”

Jeeny: “I think reality is. Death’s just what happens when the dream shifts.”

Jack: “So when someone dies, you tell yourself they’re just… dreaming somewhere else?”

Jeeny: “Not just somewhere else. Maybe in someone else.”

Jack: “That’s poetic, Jeeny. But poetry doesn’t bury the body.”

Jeeny: “No. But it reminds us the body was never the whole story.”

Host: A flicker of lightning cut through the sky, spilling its glow through the window for an instant — brief enough to make the world look suspended, weightless. The coffee steam rose between them like an apparition of thought.

Jack: “You know what bothers me about Hicks’ line? It pretends there’s comfort in mystery. But mystery doesn’t comfort; it distracts.”

Jeeny: “And what if distraction is part of healing? Maybe imagination isn’t escape — maybe it’s survival.”

Jack: “You make it sound holy.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. Maybe we imagine ourselves to keep the dream from ending.”

Jack: “Then we’re liars with good intentions.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. We’re creators with fragile memories.”

Host: The jazz deepened, slow and tender. The smoke above their table drifted upward in languid curls, like thoughts trying to escape their own weight.

Jeeny: “Think about it. Every time you remember something — your father’s voice, your first love, that street where you used to walk home — you bring them back to life. Maybe memory is proof that imagination and existence are the same thing.”

Jack: “Or proof that we can’t let go.”

Jeeny: “Letting go isn’t the same as forgetting.”

Jack: “Tell that to the grave.”

Jeeny: “Tell it to the heart.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes glistened — not with tears, but with that kind of ache that hides behind gentleness. Jack looked away, his jaw tightening, as though every truth she spoke scraped against something raw inside him.

Jack: “I watched my brother die, Jeeny. There was no dream in that room — just the sound of a machine stopping, and a silence that didn’t mean anything.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it didn’t mean anything to the room. But it meant something to you. That’s the imagination part, Jack. He stopped breathing — but he still exists in the story you carry.”

Jack: “Stories don’t bring warmth.”

Jeeny: “No. But they bring meaning.”

Jack: “And what’s meaning if it’s built on lies we tell ourselves to soften the blow?”

Jeeny: “It’s the only way we survive the blow.”

Host: The rain softened now, its rhythm slower, more contemplative. The world outside blurred into colorless motion, like a painting slowly washing itself away.

Jeeny: “Hicks didn’t mean we never die. He meant death isn’t the opposite of life — it’s the continuation of imagination. The universe imagines us into being, and we imagine it back.”

Jack: “So we’re mirrors with delusions of identity.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Reflections pretending to be light.”

Jack: “That’s terrifying.”

Jeeny: “It’s beautiful.”

Jack: “Because you find comfort in surrender.”

Jeeny: “Because surrender isn’t loss. It’s understanding.”

Host: Jeeny leaned closer, her face haloed by the faint light. Her voice softened, a quiet pulse beneath the rain.

Jeeny: “Think of it this way — if life is the dream, then every pain, every joy, every goodbye — it’s all the imagination of something larger, something beyond the skin and the clocks. We’re stories told by the infinite, Jack. And stories don’t end; they transform.”

Jack: “And what about the nightmares?”

Jeeny: “Even nightmares are part of the dream. You wake up from them, you breathe, and you realize you’re still here. Maybe death is the universe waking up — just for a moment — before falling asleep again as someone else.”

Jack: “That’s comforting. Almost dangerous, but comforting.”

Jeeny: “It’s both. Like truth always is.”

Host: Jack’s hands relaxed on the table. The cigarette he’d lit had burned nearly to its filter, untouched. Outside, a passing car’s headlights smeared briefly across the window, then disappeared into the night.

Jack: “You ever think this — all of this — might be just a thought in someone’s head? Some divine daydream?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But if it is, it’s a beautiful one. Every thought wants to feel itself alive. That’s what we are — consciousness realizing its own heartbeat.”

Jack: “Then when we die, that heartbeat stops.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It just changes rhythm.”

Host: For a moment, silence stretched — not cold, not hollow, but full, like the breath before a song.

Jeeny’s hand reached across the table, resting gently on Jack’s. He didn’t pull away.

Jeeny: “You think you’re solid, Jack. That this world is made of matter and consequence. But even physics says matter is mostly space, and what’s left — vibration, energy, rhythm. Life’s a hum we hear for a little while before the frequency changes.”

Jack: “So death’s just static.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s the next station.”

Jack: “You make it sound easy.”

Jeeny: “It isn’t. It’s just inevitable — and strangely merciful.”

Jack: “Merciful?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because it means none of this pain is permanent. Even grief has an expiration date in eternity.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked softly — an old metronome marking their conversation’s heartbeat. Time, that fragile scaffolding of illusion, seemed to bend under the weight of their words.

Jack: “You ever wonder who’s dreaming us right now?”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s not who — maybe it’s what. The universe itself, curious about what it feels like to be human.”

Jack: “And when it stops imagining?”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it becomes something else. Maybe a river. Or a child. Or a silence that hums.”

Jack: “That sounds like faith.”

Jeeny: “It’s not faith. It’s awe.”

Host: A faint smile flickered across Jack’s lips — weary, half-formed, but real. He looked out the window again; the rain had stopped, and the city lights shimmered through the thinning mist like constellations misplaced on earth.

Jack: “Maybe Hicks was right. Maybe there is no death. Just... imagination changing costumes.”

Jeeny: “Yes. And maybe the costume of the universe right now is two souls sitting in a café, talking about what they’ll become next.”

Jack: “That’s a comforting delusion.”

Jeeny: “It’s not a delusion if it gives you peace.”

Jack: “And if I don’t want peace?”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s the part of you the dream hasn’t healed yet.”

Host: The lights dimmed briefly as the power flickered. For a heartbeat, the café was lit only by the faint glow of the moonlight filtering through the window.

In that moment, the world felt like a fragile film — thin enough to tear, vast enough to contain eternity.

Jack turned to Jeeny, his voice quiet now, not with surrender, but with understanding.

Jack: “Maybe this — right now — is all eternity ever needed to exist.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. Maybe eternity dreamed us just to know what it felt like to be afraid of ending.”

Host: Outside, the last of the rain dissolved into mist. The streetlamps flickered in unison, as if bowing to the thought that had just been spoken.

For a long while, they said nothing — only listened to the faint hum of the city’s breath, the echo of existence folding gently into itself.

And as the clock struck midnight, the world felt less like a prison of time and more like a pulse in the chest of something vast, something dreaming —

— something that called itself Life.