Too much self-centered attitude, you see, brings, you see

Host: The evening air was thick with the scent of dust and diesel, the kind that clings to a city’s skin after too many hours of noise. The sky hung low — a bruised purple, cut by streaks of fading gold. A lone streetlamp flickered outside a worn-out tea shop, its light stretching across puddles like trembling hands reaching for something beyond their grasp.

Inside, the room was dim, quiet, except for the slow drip of water from a leaking pipe and the rustle of pages as Jack turned the newspaper in his hands.

He sat by the window, collar open, tie loosened, his face drawn with that familiar weariness — not of work, but of thought.

Jeeny arrived late, her hair damp from the mist, her eyes bright but shadowed with concern. She sat across from him without a word.

For a while, they said nothing — the kind of silence that knows too much.

Jeeny: “The Dalai Lama once said — ‘Too much self-centered attitude brings isolation. Result: loneliness, fear, anger. The extreme self-centered attitude is the source of suffering.’”

Her voice was soft but firm, like a bell in a fog. “He was right. We spend our lives building walls around ourselves — then wonder why we’re lonely.”

Jack: raising an eyebrow “You’re talking to a man who pays taxes, deals with clients, and barely sleeps. If self-interest is a sin, then we’re all condemned.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Self-interest isn’t the same as self-centeredness. One keeps you alive. The other keeps you alone.”

Host: Jack’s eyes flickered, his jaw tightening just slightly. A small gust of wind pressed against the window, making the glass shudder — as if the world outside was listening in.

Jack: “You really believe that all our suffering comes from thinking about ourselves too much? You make it sound like we should all just forget who we are and live for everyone else.”

Jeeny: “Not forget, Jack. Remember differently. To remember that who we are is not separate from others. That our joy depends on theirs.”

Jack: “That’s a beautiful illusion. But the world doesn’t work that way. People take. People cheat. People look out for number one — because no one else will.”

Jeeny: “And that’s exactly why they suffer. Don’t you see? We build our own prisons, brick by brick, every time we say ‘me’ instead of ‘us.’”

Host: The tea kettle whistled behind the counter — a sharp, urgent sound that sliced the quiet. The shop owner, an old man with stooped shoulders, poured hot water into cracked porcelain cups. The steam rose between Jack and Jeeny like a thin veil.

Jack: leaning forward, his tone edged with irony “So what, Jeeny? You’re saying if I stopped thinking about myself, the world would magically heal? No more fear, no more loneliness, no more anger?”

Jeeny: meeting his gaze “Not magically. Patiently. Like tending a wound. You can’t stop the pain right away — but you can stop making it worse.”

Jack: “That’s easy to say when your heart hasn’t been stepped on.”

Jeeny: “It has, Jack. You know it has.”

Host: Jack froze for a moment, his eyes softening, the defense in his voice slipping like a cracked mask.

Jeeny’s words hung in the air, heavy but gentle — the kind that doesn’t wound, but remembers.

Jack: quietly “So what do you do with the emptiness, then? When you’ve given everything and the world still turns away?”

Jeeny: “You give again — but differently. Not to be loved, not to be seen. You give because that’s what keeps you whole. The Dalai Lama wasn’t just talking about altruism. He meant freedom. The kind that comes when you stop orbiting yourself.”

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

Jeeny: smiling faintly “Then you start with listening. Even that is a gift.”

Host: A bus rumbled by outside, its lights streaking across the window, scattering colors over their faces. For a moment, Jeeny’s eyes shimmered — gold, then blue, then dim again.

Jack took a sip of his tea, his hands trembling slightly from the heat or maybe from something deeper.

Jack: “You know, there’s a strange kind of comfort in being self-centered. You get to control the narrative. You get to blame yourself, or the world — but either way, you stay in charge. There’s no room for disappointment if you don’t let anyone in.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. But control isn’t peace. It’s fear wearing a crown.”

Jack: “Fear keeps us safe.”

Jeeny: “No — fear keeps us small. Safe isn’t the same as alive, Jack.”

Host: Her words fell softly, but they struck with weight. Jack’s eyes lowered, his thumb tracing the rim of his cup, as if searching for the right edge of his thoughts.

Jeeny: “You know what loneliness really is?”

Jack: “A luxury for people with time to feel it.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s the echo of yourself in an empty room. The sound of your own walls talking back. You think it’s others who’ve abandoned you, but really, you’ve abandoned them first — out of pride, out of fear.”

Jack: sighing “Maybe I just got tired of being disappointed.”

Jeeny: “So did everyone else, Jack. But they keep trying. That’s what love is — the courage to reach again after you’ve been dropped.”

Host: The shop lights flickered, their bulbs humming softly. The rain started again — slow, rhythmic, like the heartbeat of the city. The steam from their cups curled upward, meeting in the dim light and vanishing into the ceiling shadows.

Jack: “You really think selflessness can cure suffering?”

Jeeny: “Not cure — transform. You can’t erase pain, but you can make it meaningful. You can turn your loneliness into empathy. Your fear into kindness. Your anger into understanding.”

Jack: “And what if no one returns it?”

Jeeny: “Then you’ve still done something sacred. You’ve kept yourself human.”

Host: Jack leaned back, the chair creaking beneath him. He looked at Jeeny for a long moment — not with argument, but with a quiet ache that words couldn’t quite reach.

Jack: softly “You sound like someone who’s already made peace with the world.”

Jeeny: “No. I’m just learning to stop making war with myself.”

Jack: “And has it worked?”

Jeeny: “Some days. Others… I forget. And then I start again.”

Host: Jack smiled then — not mockery, not defense. Just a small, tired smile, like a man remembering something he’d lost long ago.

Jack: “Maybe that’s the secret. Not perfection — just remembering.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Remembering that we belong to each other.”

Host: The rain softened into a fine mist. The shopkeeper began to close up, stacking cups, wiping counters. The city outside was quieter now — less defiant, more tender.

Jack and Jeeny sat a little longer, letting the silence do the talking.

The lamp light framed their faces — two souls at opposite ends of belief, slowly meeting in the middle.

Jack: “Maybe we suffer because we keep looking inward — when the healing’s out there.”

Jeeny: “And maybe the healing starts when we stop asking, ‘What do I need?’ and start asking, ‘Who needs me?’”

Jack: nodding slowly “That’s harder than it sounds.”

Jeeny: “Everything worth doing is.”

Host: Outside, the rain stopped, leaving a faint reflection of the lamp’s glow on the street — a perfect circle of light on a world washed clean.

Jack looked out, then turned to Jeeny.

Jack: “You know, for the first time in a while… I don’t feel as alone.”

Jeeny: smiling “That’s because you’re not.”

Host: The city exhaled. Somewhere far off, a train whistle cried — lonely, but moving forward.

And in that dim tea shop, with the scent of earth and steam hanging in the air, two people quietly remembered what the Dalai Lama meant:

That suffering isn’t born from pain itself, but from the walls we build around it.

And when those walls finally begin to crack, light slips in — not to blind, but to heal.

The lamp flickered once, then steadied, as if the world itself had found balance for a fleeting, sacred moment.