We believe it is bad or dangerous to be carried away by our

Host: The rain came down in steady sheets, drumming against the windows of the small downtown café. Neon reflections bled across the floor, smearing the world in reds and blues, like the city’s own quiet confession. The air smelled of espresso, wet pavement, and something faintly bitter, like loneliness wearing perfume.

Jack sat in the corner booth, his jacket soaked, his hands wrapped around a chipped coffee cup. Jeeny leaned opposite him, her hair damp, her eyes alive with the kind of fire that belonged to people who still felt too much.

The clock ticked overhead. The world outside hurried. Inside, time hesitated.

Jeeny: “Alexander Lowen once said — ‘We believe it is bad or dangerous to be carried away by our emotions. We admire the person who is cool, who acts without feeling.’”

Jack: (snorts softly) “Sounds about right. The world’s run by people who keep their heads cool. Not the ones crying in corners.”

Jeeny: “You say that like it’s a virtue.”

Jack: “It is. The world doesn’t reward people who get emotional, Jeeny. It rewards those who stay calm — controlled. Whether you’re in a boardroom, a courtroom, or a battlefield, the minute you let emotion take the wheel, you crash.”

Host: The light from the window fractured across Jack’s face — half steel, half shadow. Jeeny tilted her head, her fingers tapping the rim of her mug, as if drumming out a quiet revolt.

Jeeny: “And yet, every great movement, every act of courage, every love worth having — came from people who did get carried away. Martin Luther King didn’t stay calm. Van Gogh didn’t. Every artist, every revolutionary — they were all prisoners of their emotions. And thank God for that.”

Jack: “And how many of them destroyed themselves in the process? You call it courage. I call it self-immolation.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But isn’t there something worse than burning? Like never catching fire at all?”

Host: Her voice trembled — not with weakness, but with the tension of someone who’d spent a lifetime trying to stay composed, only to realize it was killing her. Outside, the rain intensified, clattering against the glass like the heartbeat of something alive.

Jack: “Jeeny, the world needs restraint. Look at the markets. The law. The military. Even medicine. If emotion ran every decision, we’d be chaos. ‘Cool’ isn’t cowardice — it’s structure. It’s civilization.”

Jeeny: “And that’s exactly why people are dying inside their cubicles, Jack. Why the richest cities on earth feel like emotional graveyards. We’ve made an altar out of composure — and sacrificed our souls to it.”

Jack: “Oh come on. People aren’t dead. They’re just adapting. You can’t build bridges with tears.”

Jeeny: “No, but you can’t build hearts with logic either.”

Host: A bus hissed to a stop outside, its headlights slicing the rain like two white knives. The sound of its doors opening and closing punctuated the silence between them. Jack’s jaw tightened. Jeeny’s gaze held steady, as if daring him to blink first.

Jack: “You’re too romantic. The world’s not a poem. It’s a contract.”

Jeeny: “And that’s the tragedy. We’ve mistaken coolness for wisdom, numbness for strength. People think control means power, but it’s just fear wearing a suit.”

Jack: “Fear keeps us alive.”

Jeeny: “No. Fear keeps us small. You know what keeps us alive? Passion. Connection. The willingness to feel even when it hurts.”

Jack: “You think emotion saves people? Tell that to the man who loses control in anger and ruins his life. Or to the soldier who hesitates because he feels too much. Emotion’s a liability.”

Jeeny: “Only when it’s repressed for too long. Then it explodes. You can’t cage a lion forever and act surprised when it kills you.”

Host: The café door opened, letting in a rush of cold air and the sound of thunder. A woman with red lipstick stepped in, shaking her umbrella, eyes hollow, face painted with the kind of calm society admires — flawless, detached, dying quietly inside.

Jack: “You want to live in a world ruled by emotions? Fine. But that’s not civilization — that’s anarchy. People crying at board meetings, lovers making policy, anger running governments.”

Jeeny: “That already happens, Jack. They just hide it under polished speeches and perfect smiles. Don’t you see? The calm faces you admire — they’re just masks. The emotion doesn’t disappear; it just festers.”

Jack: “You talk like emotion’s some divine truth.”

Jeeny: “It is. Emotion is our body’s way of telling the truth before our minds can lie about it.”

Jack: “And yet people lie because of emotion — lust, jealousy, pride.”

Jeeny: “No. People lie because they’re afraid of emotion — afraid to admit they’re not as cold, not as composed, not as invincible as they pretend to be.”

Host: The rain softened, turning to a delicate mist that clung to the windowpane like the fingerprints of ghosts. Jeeny’s hand rested on the table, trembling just slightly, as if her heart had more to say than her lips could bear.

Jack: “So what? You want a world where everyone cries openly, loves recklessly, screams in public? You think that’s healthy?”

Jeeny: “I think it’s human. Lowen wasn’t saying emotion makes us weak — he was saying that our fear of it does. The moment we start admiring the ‘cool’ man who never breaks, we start worshiping emptiness.”

Jack: “You can’t function like that. Life demands composure.”

Jeeny: “Composure isn’t the opposite of emotion, Jack. It’s the ability to hold emotion without killing it. You don’t drown the fire — you learn to breathe next to it.”

Jack: (quietly) “That sounds… dangerous.”

Jeeny: “It is. But so is living without a pulse.”

Host: A beat of silence. Then another. The rain had stopped completely, replaced by the soft hum of the espresso machine and the faint music leaking from the radio — an old jazz tune that sounded like someone remembering who they used to be.

Jack: “You know, I envy you sometimes.”

Jeeny: “Envy me? Why?”

Jack: “Because you still believe feelings make life deeper. I only ever saw how they make it messier.”

Jeeny: “Maybe messy is what makes it real.”

Jack: “Maybe. But mess scares me.”

Jeeny: “That’s because it reminds you you’re alive.”

Host: He looked down, his reflection warped in the black coffee, his eyes softer now, as if some armor inside him had quietly cracked. Jeeny watched him — not with triumph, but with the gentleness reserved for someone standing on the edge of understanding.

Jack: “You know what’s ironic? The most composed people I know — the ‘cool ones’ — they’re the ones who crumble hardest when no one’s looking.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Coolness is the ice that cracks in silence.”

Jack: “So what do we do, then? Just… melt?”

Jeeny: “No. We thaw. Slowly. Together.”

Host: The lights dimmed slightly as the power flickered. In that moment, Jack’s face softened into something vulnerable, almost tender — a man stripped of his logic, left only with the quiet ache of being human.

Jack: “I spent years learning how not to feel — thought that was strength. But maybe strength is just… staying open.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Strength is crying and still showing up. It’s loving after being hurt. It’s saying ‘I care’ in a world that keeps telling you not to.”

Jack: (smiles faintly) “You sound like a poet.”

Jeeny: “No. Just someone who’s tired of pretending not to bleed.”

Host: The rain began again, gentler this time — like an apology from the sky. The café lights glowed warm against the dark street, and for a moment, the world outside seemed to slow, as if listening to their fragile truth.

Jack: “So maybe Lowen was right — we do admire the cool ones. But maybe it’s time we start admiring the ones who aren’t. The ones who shake. Who cry. Who care too much.”

Jeeny: “Because they’re the ones still capable of being human.”

Host: Jack nodded, quietly, a small smile forming — the kind that didn’t hide behind reason anymore. The rainlight glimmered on the tabletop, and between them, something invisible shifted — a silent agreement that feeling wasn’t failure.

Outside, a taxi passed, its wheels hissing through puddles, carrying with it the reflection of two souls learning, at last, that to be moved isn’t to be weak — it’s to be alive.

And as the night deepened, the city breathed — cool, trembling, and beautifully human.