Through loyalty to the past, our mind refuses to realize that

Host:
The evening sea whispered against the shoreline, slow and rhythmic, as though time itself were breathing. The horizon bled a faint orange into the bruised indigo of twilight. Waves rolled in and receded, folding themselves into the sand like old promises, leaving behind lines of silver foam.

On a weathered wooden pier, Jack and Jeeny sat side by side. The air smelled of salt and distance, of endings and beginnings. The tide moved beneath them, restless yet constant.

Between them, Jeeny held a small notebook open to a page that caught the last of the light. In it, she had written — carefully, almost reverently — the words of André Gide:

"Through loyalty to the past, our mind refuses to realize that tomorrow's joy is possible only if today's makes way for it; that each wave owes the beauty of its line only to the withdrawal of the preceding one."

Jeeny read it aloud, and the sound of her voice mingled with the sound of the ocean — a harmony of truth and tide.

Jeeny: (softly) “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? The way he compares life to the sea — how even joy, even beauty, needs space to exist. You can’t cling to one wave and expect another to form. It’s like he’s saying we have to let go to be alive.”

Jack: (nodding slowly, his eyes fixed on the horizon) “Yeah. Gide had a way of making philosophy sound like poetry. What he’s really talking about is detachment — the idea that nostalgia is a kind of anchor. We stay loyal to what’s already gone, and in doing so, we strangle what could be.”

Host:
A seagull’s cry split the quiet sky, sharp but fleeting. The light had begun to dim, and the waves caught glimmers of fading gold, like memories reluctant to vanish.

Jeeny: (thoughtful) “But loyalty feels sacred, doesn’t it? We’re taught to hold on — to cherish the past, to stay faithful to it. Gide almost sounds cruel here, like he’s asking us to betray what we’ve loved.”

Jack: (his voice deep, deliberate) “Not betrayal — release. There’s a difference. Loyalty to the past isn’t love; it’s fear. We hold on because the past is known, safe. The future demands courage — it asks for faith in what we can’t yet see. Letting go isn’t rejection; it’s trusting time to do its work.”

Jeeny: (softly, smiling faintly) “Trusting time. That’s hard for people like us — the ones who overthink, who hold memories like relics.”

Jack: (smirking slightly) “Relics are beautiful until they start weighing you down. Every joy we cling to becomes a burden eventually. Every wave, no matter how perfect, has to withdraw — otherwise, the sea would turn stagnant.”

Host:
The wind stirred Jeeny’s hair, lifting a few loose strands into the air. She tucked them behind her ear absently, her gaze lost in the endless motion of the water.

Jeeny: “You know what I love about this quote? The compassion in it. Gide isn’t mocking our sentimentality — he’s reminding us that renewal is a sacrifice. That beauty is born from disappearance. Even in nature, creation depends on surrender.”

Jack: (quietly) “It’s the cruel mercy of the world — everything that lives must yield to make space for what comes next. And yet we fight it. We mourn every loss as if loss isn’t what gives meaning to what remains.”

Jeeny: (gazing out at the sea) “Maybe that’s why he uses waves — because they never really die. They fold into each other. The old makes way for the new, but nothing truly vanishes. It just changes form.”

Jack: (with a half-smile) “That’s faith talking.”

Jeeny: (turning to him) “Maybe. But I think it’s also awareness. When you’ve lived long enough, you start seeing the pattern — the rise and the fall, the grief and the grace. You stop demanding permanence and start appreciating rhythm.”

Jack: (nodding slowly) “And that’s what freedom is — not holding on, but flowing. Like water.”

Host:
The waves rolled in, one after another, each dissolving into the next — distinct yet inseparable. The sky had darkened, but the ocean held the last light, shimmering with quiet persistence.

The air between them grew softer, contemplative.

Jeeny: (after a long pause) “You ever notice how people build their whole identity on what’s already over? They define themselves by old pain, old love, old versions of who they were. It’s tragic. They become loyal to a ghost.”

Jack: (his tone low, reflective) “Yeah. It’s like living with the echo of a song instead of the music itself. And sometimes, the hardest part isn’t letting go of the past — it’s letting go of the version of yourself that belonged to it.”

Jeeny: (nodding) “Maybe that’s why we fear change so much. Because it demands a kind of death.”

Jack: (looking at her, voice almost tender) “But death in this sense isn’t an ending — it’s an invitation. Each withdrawal, each loss, creates the curve for something new to take shape. Gide was right — the beauty of the next wave is only possible because the last one receded.”

Host:
The moon began to rise — pale and vast, shimmering across the water. It painted their faces in silver light, softening the edges of their words.

Jeeny: (quietly, almost to herself) “Maybe that’s what forgiveness really is — allowing the past to withdraw gracefully. Letting it dissolve without bitterness.”

Jack: (gazing out over the water) “Yeah. Forgiveness isn’t about making peace with what happened — it’s about making room for what’s next. The mind that clings to the past is like a wave refusing to fall back. Eventually, it breaks itself.”

Jeeny: (turning to him, her voice calm and certain) “So to live fully, we have to learn to withdraw beautifully.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “That might be the most poetic thing you’ve ever said.”

Jeeny: (grinning) “I’ve been studying the sea.”

Host (closing):
The tide receded, soft and sure, leaving trails of foam that glowed under the moonlight. The sound of the waves became slower, gentler — a pulse that echoed the quiet understanding between them.

André Gide’s words lingered like the salt in the air:
"Each wave owes the beauty of its line only to the withdrawal of the preceding one."

Jack and Jeeny sat in silence, watching the sea — not clinging to what had passed, not reaching for what was coming — just breathing with the rhythm of the world, learning that to let go is not to lose,
but to make room for tomorrow’s joy to finally arrive.