We are not actually in charge of life, yet behave as if we are

Host: The bar was dim, the kind of dim that swallows faces and memories whole. Smoke drifted through the air like lazy ghosts, and the neon beer sign outside flickered, bleeding red light through the dusty window. Somewhere in the back, an old jukebox hummed out Leonard Cohen, his voice like a confession over whiskey and regret.

At a corner table, Jack sat with his coat draped over the chair, a half-empty glass in front of him, fingers tracing the rim as if searching for meaning in the vibration. Jeeny sat opposite him, her hands folded, her eyes soft, yet piercing in their quiet understanding.

It was late. The kind of late where truth feels like it’s hiding somewhere between alcohol and admission.

Jeeny: “Billy Childish said, ‘We are not actually in charge of life, yet behave as if we are the masters of our own destiny. The realization of this fact is quite a hard one. The ridiculousness of our pomposity and presumption can only result in anger or humor.’”

Jack: “Sounds like something a man says after his fifth divorce.”

Jeeny: “Or after his first enlightenment.”

Jack: “Enlightenment? More like surrender. That line — ‘we’re not in charge of life’ — that’s the anthem of the defeated. People who gave up pretending they had control.”

Jeeny: “Or people who finally saw through the illusion.”

Host: A bottle clinked, the bartender’s laugh echoing off the brick walls. The air smelled of spilled beer and rain-soaked coats. Outside, a sirens’ wail passed, then faded into night silence again.

Jack: “You talk like control is a bad thing. Every inch of progress we’ve made — science, medicine, architecture — came from humans refusing to accept that we’re not in charge. Imagine if the Wright brothers said, ‘Well, the sky belongs to God, better not interfere.’”

Jeeny: “And yet every time we try to play God, something reminds us we’re not. A plane crashes. A virus spreads. A loved one dies out of nowhere. You can build a thousand engines, Jack, but you can’t engineer certainty.”

Jack: “So what — we just laugh about it, like Childish said? Or get angry? Those are his two options?”

Jeeny: “Maybe those are the only honest ones. Anger because we’re small. Humor because we finally accept it.”

Jack: “I’ll take anger. It keeps you sharp.”

Jeeny: “And bitter.”

Host: The light flickered, catching the curve of Jeeny’s cheek, the wet gleam in her eyes. Jack looked away, the whiskey burning down his throat, a quiet defiance in his breathing.

Jack: “You ever think that maybe life wants us to act like we’re in charge? Maybe that’s part of the design — that our arrogance keeps the species moving forward. Without it, we’d still be hiding in caves, waiting for lightning to cook our dinner.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But look at what that arrogance costs. The planet’s burning, oceans choking, people starving while we argue about whose god or government is better. We call it progress — but it’s just organized delusion.”

Jack: “Delusion drives civilization. Without it, there’s no art, no science, no exploration. You think Shakespeare wrote Hamlet because he understood chaos? No — he wrote it because he wanted to tame it.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe he wrote it because he realized he couldn’t. That’s the difference between you and me, Jack. You think peace comes from control; I think it comes from understanding the lack of it.”

Host: A pause settled, thick as smoke. The bar clock ticked, slow, deliberate. A couple laughed at the counter — too loud, too alive. Jack’s jaw tightened.

Jack: “So we’re puppets then? Strings pulled by fate, chaos, God — take your pick. That’s your version of life?”

Jeeny: “Not puppets. More like dancers who don’t choose the music — but can still choose how to move.”

Jack: “That’s poetic, but it’s still surrender. You make peace with randomness, I make war with it.”

Jeeny: “And who’s winning?”

Host: The question hung, sharp as a knife, before falling softly into the quiet hum of the room. Jack laughed once, low and tired — a sound that didn’t quite make it to a smile.

Jack: “You ever notice how people only talk about fate when something goes wrong? No one thanks destiny when they win the lottery. They call it luck, or skill, or hard work. But when it all falls apart — suddenly it’s ‘not meant to be.’”

Jeeny: “That’s because tragedy exposes truth faster than triumph. Success makes us believe we’re in charge. Failure shows us we never were.”

Jack: “So what, you think we should just float through life? No ambition, no fight?”

Jeeny: “Not float — flow. There’s a difference. Floating is apathy; flowing is trust. The river doesn’t fight gravity — it dances with it.”

Jack: “And it still ends in the ocean — drowned, dissolved.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the point. To dissolve. To become something larger than yourself.”

Host: The rain returned, soft, steady, rhythmic. The windowpane shimmered with city light, streaked by the motion of falling water. Jeeny’s voice softened, almost a whisper now.

Jeeny: “When I was seventeen, my brother was in a car accident. He survived — barely. The doctors said he’d never walk again. For months, I raged. I cursed God, the driver, the world — anyone. And then one night, I found him laughing, sitting by the window, watching the rain. I asked him what was funny. He said, ‘It’s just water falling from the sky. Isn’t that absurd?’”

Jack: “He laughed?”

Jeeny: “Yes. He said, ‘If I can’t change the world, at least I can laugh with it.’ That’s when I understood what Childish meant — that you can either burn with anger or laugh with humility. Both come from realizing you’re not in control.”

Jack: “And which one did you choose?”

Jeeny: “Both. Anger to keep me human. Humor to keep me kind.”

Host: Jack’s fingers tightened around his glass, then loosened. The ice clinked softly — a small, honest sound.

Jack: “You know… I used to think destiny was a scam. That people used it as an excuse for failure. But maybe it’s something else. Maybe it’s the only thing keeping us sane — believing that there’s a line, even if we can’t read the map.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The line doesn’t belong to us, but we still get to draw our footprints along it.”

Jack: “So maybe the trick is to stop trying to be masters, and start being… what? Witnesses?”

Jeeny: “Participants. Grateful participants in something far bigger, far stranger.”

Jack: “And if we trip along the way?”

Jeeny: “Then we laugh. Or we cry. Either way, we remember we’re alive.”

Host: The bar lights dimmed, the song on the jukebox changed — Bob Dylan, his voice a tired sermon: “It’s not dark yet, but it’s getting there.”
Jeeny leaned back, her eyes reflecting the neon glow, her smile faint but real. Jack looked at her, something loosening behind his cynicism.

Jack: “You think Childish was laughing when he wrote that?”

Jeeny: “Probably. The kind of laugh that hurts in the ribs but heals in the heart.”

Jack: “Yeah… I know that one.”

Host: Outside, the rain eased, and a thin moonlight spread across the wet street, turning the puddles into small mirrors. The sound of traffic grew distant, like the world exhaling.

Jack poured the last of his whiskey, raised the glass, and smiled — not in arrogance, but in surrender.

Jack: “To fate — the silent comedian.”

Jeeny: “And to us — the audience still learning to laugh.”

Host: They clinked glasses, and for a moment, the world stopped pretending to be under control. There was only light, laughter, and the quiet humility of two souls who had finally learned to dance in the absurdity of life.

The night breathed, and for once, it didn’t need to make sense — it only needed to be.