To be nobody but yourself in a world which is doing its best

Host: The subway car rattled through the dark tunnels beneath the city, its flickering lights slicing across the faces of the few passengers still awake after midnight. The air was heavy with the smell of metal, damp fabric, and the faint perfume of exhaustion. On one of the cracked vinyl seats, Jack sat with his shoulders hunched, a newspaper folded neatly in his lap — unread.

Host: Jeeny sat beside him, her head tilted against the window, watching her reflection tremble with every turn of the train. Her eyes were open, thoughtful, catching the light the way still water catches fire.

Jeeny: (softly) “e. e. cummings once said, ‘To be nobody but yourself in a world which is doing its best, night and day, to make you everybody else — means to fight the hardest battle which any human being can fight; and never stop fighting.’”

Jack: (smirking) “Sounds poetic enough to make loneliness sound noble.”

Jeeny: “It’s not about loneliness. It’s about resistance.”

Jack: “Same thing, isn’t it? Standing apart means standing alone.”

Jeeny: “Not if you’re standing in truth.”

Host: The train screeched briefly as it entered another tunnel — the sound long, sharp, metallic — like the voice of the city disagreeing with them. The flickering lights turned Jeeny’s face into flashes of shadow and light, her expression unreadable.

Jack: “You really think anyone can stay themselves in this world? We’re built to bend. That’s how we survive.”

Jeeny: “Bending isn’t the same as breaking.”

Jack: “You say that like you’ve never had to sell a piece of yourself to keep your life from falling apart.”

Jeeny: “Oh, I’ve sold pieces. But I buy them back every time I remember who I am.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “You talk like identity’s a souvenir — something you can misplace, then find again.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. Maybe it’s the thing we keep rediscovering after the world keeps trying to rename us.”

Host: The lights steadied now as the train emerged from the tunnel into a stretch of the elevated line. The city unfolded outside — empty streets, distant towers, and the faint shimmer of rain on rooftops.

Jack: “You ever get tired of fighting?”

Jeeny: “Every day. But I’d rather be exhausted from being myself than rested from pretending.”

Jack: “You make it sound like authenticity’s a war zone.”

Jeeny: “It is. Just with quieter weapons.”

Host: Jack leaned back, his eyes fixed on the streaks of light outside. His voice, when he spoke again, was low — more confession than question.

Jack: “You know, when I was younger, I used to admire people who fit in. The ones who knew exactly what to say, how to act, when to laugh. They made it look easy. I thought that’s what strength was — blending so perfectly no one noticed the seams.”

Jeeny: “And now?”

Jack: “Now I think that’s fear disguised as grace.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “You’re learning.”

Jack: “Learning what?”

Jeeny: “That invisibility isn’t safety. It’s surrender.”

Host: A silence stretched between them — long, not awkward, but electric. The kind that feels like two hearts realizing they’ve both been keeping the same secret.

Jack: “You really think being yourself changes anything? The world’s too loud to care.”

Jeeny: “Maybe the world doesn’t have to change. Maybe it’s enough if you do.”

Jack: “And what does that even mean? The rent doesn’t care about authenticity.”

Jeeny: “True. But you can pay rent and still refuse to sell your soul as part of the lease.”

Host: The city lights outside flickered past like brief reminders of something better — moments of warmth amid the blur. Jeeny turned to him, her expression softened now, less conviction, more compassion.

Jeeny: “Jack, being yourself isn’t about being loud. It’s about being true — even when it costs you comfort.”

Jack: “That’s a poetic way to describe misery.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s a human way to describe freedom.”

Jack: “Freedom hurts.”

Jeeny: “Only at first.”

Host: The train slowed as it approached a station, the brakes screaming like the metal itself was tired of carrying so much weight. A few passengers stood up and shuffled out into the night air. The doors hissed shut, and the train began moving again.

Jack: “You think Cummings actually lived like that? Refusing to become what the world wanted?”

Jeeny: “He wrote like a man who did. Every line broke rules — punctuation, form, language. He didn’t just write poetry. He rebelled with it.”

Jack: “And paid the price for it, I’m sure.”

Jeeny: “Of course. Everyone who fights to be themselves does. But the alternative is worse — being loved for the mask instead of the face beneath it.”

Host: The hum of the train grew steadier now, blending with the soft rhythm of their voices.

Jack: “You ever feel like you’re losing that battle?”

Jeeny: “Every time I look in a mirror and wonder who I’m performing for.”

Jack: “And what do you do then?”

Jeeny: “I go quiet. I stop pretending. And I listen for the sound of my own heartbeat — because that’s the only applause that matters.”

Host: He looked at her, and for a moment, something in him cracked — not with sadness, but recognition.

Jack: “You make it sound like being yourself is a kind of faith.”

Jeeny: “It is. Faith in the one person you’ll never escape.”

Host: The lights flickered once more, and the city skyline appeared outside the window — sprawling, luminous, alive. The glass reflected both their faces — hers calm, his uncertain — two versions of the same question.

Jack: “You know, sometimes I think I’ve been fighting the wrong battle. I’ve spent my whole life trying to be the man people expected, and I’m still not sure I ever liked him.”

Jeeny: “Then lay down that armor. It’s too heavy for a man who just wants to be real.”

Jack: “And what if there’s nothing left underneath?”

Jeeny: “Then that’s your beginning, not your end.”

Host: The train entered the final stretch before their stop, the night folding quietly around them. Outside, dawn was beginning to whisper — that pale, uncertain light that feels like a promise and a warning all at once.

Jack: “You really think the fight never stops?”

Jeeny: “Not as long as the world keeps selling comfort disguised as conformity.”

Jack: “You make rebellion sound sacred.”

Jeeny: “It is. Because every time someone refuses to vanish into the crowd, the human spirit remembers itself.”

Host: The train slowed to a halt. The doors opened. A cool wind swept in — carrying the smell of rain and the electricity of new beginnings.

Jeeny stood, pulling her coat tighter around her shoulders.

Jeeny: “Cummings was right, Jack. The hardest battle isn’t out there. It’s the one that happens quietly — between the person you are and the person the world keeps trying to make you.”

Host: He stood beside her, the fight written on his face not as defeat, but decision.

Jack: “Then I guess it’s time to stop losing.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Then keep fighting. Every day. Every breath.”

Host: They stepped out into the street. The sky above was streaked with the first light of morning — faint, defiant, beautiful.

Host: And as they walked into the awakening city, e. e. cummings’s words seemed to move with them — not as poetry, but as commandment:
to be nobody but yourself in a world that profits from your imitation — is to live fiercely, truthfully, eternally human.

Host: The sun rose, slow and gold. And somewhere between its light and the lingering dark, two souls carried the quiet courage of all who choose to fight that hardest battle — and never stop.