We have perhaps a natural fear of ends. We would rather be always

Host: The train station was almost empty, its echoes stretching into the distance like forgotten dreams. The air was thick with the smell of iron, oil, and the faint sweetness of coffee from a flickering vending machine. A late-night announcement hummed through the loudspeakers, its voice tired, distorted, like someone speaking in their sleep.

The clock above the platform read 11:47 PM. Outside, rain fell in thin threads, catching the light of the lamps, each drop falling as if time itself had slowed.

Jack sat on a cold bench, his coat collar turned up, his eyes fixed on the empty tracks. Beside him, Jeeny stood, her umbrella closed, her hair darkened by the rain, her gaze distant — somewhere between arrival and departure.

Jeeny: “Eric Hoffer once wrote, ‘We have perhaps a natural fear of ends. We would rather be always on the way than arrive. Given the means, we hang on to them and often forget the ends.’”

Jack: (without looking up) “Makes sense. People love the chase more than the catch. The journey gives them something to do — the destination gives them nothing to hide behind.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s not fear of nothingness, Jack. Maybe it’s the sadness of completion. When you arrive, something beautiful is over.”

Jack: “Or maybe you just run out of excuses. As long as you’re ‘on the way,’ you can pretend you’re becoming something. Once you arrive — that’s it. You face what you are.”

Host: The rain outside drummed softly on the glass roof, an imperfect rhythm, like a heartbeat trying to keep time with memory. A train horn sounded somewhere far off, deep and lonely.

Jeeny: “But isn’t becoming the point? Every artist, every thinker — they lived for the process. They weren’t trying to finish; they were trying to understand.”

Jack: “Yeah, and most of them died before they did. The process is comfortable — it gives you meaning without accountability. Arrival forces you to prove what the journey was for.”

Jeeny: “So you’d rather live halfway to everything?”

Jack: “It’s safer that way. You can’t fail if you never finish.”

Jeeny: (softly) “You can’t live if you never arrive.”

Host: A gust of wind pushed through the doors, rattling the signs. The sound of footsteps echoed down the corridor, fading before they reached the platform. Jeeny’s eyes followed the empty tracks, where a faint light began to glow in the distance — a train, maybe, or just the reflection of the city beyond.

Jack: “You ever notice how everyone’s obsessed with the word journey now? Every career, every relationship, every mistake — it’s all a journey. Nobody ever says they’re done. They just keep moving so they don’t have to stop and look back.”

Jeeny: “Maybe because stopping feels like dying. The world tells us that motion equals worth. If you pause too long, people start to think you’ve failed.”

Jack: “And maybe they’re right. The world doesn’t reward stillness, Jeeny. It rewards noise.”

Jeeny: “But even noise fades, Jack. Eventually, you have to face the silence.”

Host: A long silence fell between them, filled only by the humming of the lights and the rhythm of the rain. Jack tilted his head, watching the tracks vanish into the darkness, as if they led not to another city, but to a kind of truth.

Jeeny: “You’ve always been afraid of endings, haven’t you?”

Jack: “I’ve always been afraid of what comes after them.”

Jeeny: “And what’s that?”

Jack: “Nothing.”

Jeeny: (shaking her head) “No. What comes after is stillness. The thing we spend our whole lives avoiding — the moment when we finally have to listen to ourselves.”

Jack: “Stillness is a luxury for people who’ve earned peace. The rest of us keep moving because the noise keeps us sane.”

Jeeny: “Or because the silence might tell us the truth.”

Host: The train light grew brighter, cutting through the mist now. The metal tracks shimmered with reflected light, and the faint vibration of its approach moved through the floor, through the bench, through their bones.

Jack: “You know what Hoffer really meant? That we mistake the path for purpose. That the means become the addiction. We fall in love with motion because it spares us from meaning.”

Jeeny: “But the means can have meaning. Think of a painter — the act of creating is the purpose. The painting is just residue.”

Jack: “Then why do we hang them in museums? Why do we immortalize the finished work? Because even the artist knows the end matters.”

Jeeny: “But art never really ends, Jack. Every viewer recreates it. Every moment changes it. The ‘end’ is just where the artist stopped breathing.”

Jack: “So you’d rather live forever in the sketch, not the masterpiece.”

Jeeny: “Maybe the sketch is more honest. It shows the hand trembling, the thought forming — the truth still raw.”

Host: The train was near now, the rumble of its arrival filling the station like a distant storm. The light washed over the walls, bathing them in silver and shadow. Jeeny watched it approach, her expression calm, almost defiant.

Jeeny: “You think fear of ends is weakness, but maybe it’s wisdom. Maybe we were never meant to arrive — because arrival kills wonder.”

Jack: “No, it kills delusion. Wonder’s what we invent when we’re afraid to commit. Everyone wants to be searching. No one wants to be found.”

Jeeny: “Is that what you’ve been doing? Running from being found?”

Jack: (after a pause) “Maybe. Maybe I confuse momentum for meaning. Every time I get close to something real, I walk away. I tell myself it’s not time yet. That I’m still ‘on the way.’”

Jeeny: “And does that comfort you?”

Jack: “No. It just postpones the emptiness.”

Host: The train arrived, brakes screeching, steam hissing, the doors sliding open with a hollow sound. No one stepped off. The platform stayed empty, except for them. The light from the carriage fell across their faces, dividing them — his in shadow, hers in gold.

Jeeny: “You know, the first explorers who circumnavigated the world — they set out to find new lands, but what they discovered was that they had returned to where they started. The journey didn’t erase the beginning; it revealed it.”

Jack: “So you’re saying all this moving just brings us back home.”

Jeeny: “If we’re lucky, yes. If we’re honest, maybe. But if we’re afraid, we just keep circling — never touching down, never arriving.”

Jack: “And if we do arrive?”

Jeeny: “Then we finally see what we’ve been running from — ourselves.”

Host: The rain began to ease, tapering into a soft mist that hung in the air like memory. Jack stood, his eyes on the open train door, his breath slow, uncertain.

Jack: “Maybe Hoffer was right. Maybe we’re addicted to the means because it gives us the illusion of progress. The moment we stop, we realize we’ve been running in circles.”

Jeeny: (quietly) “Then stop.”

Jack: “What if I don’t know how?”

Jeeny: “Then let the train teach you. Every arrival is just another beginning waiting to be seen differently.”

Host: A soft chime echoed — the signal for departure. Jack took a step forward, then hesitated. Jeeny watched, her eyes steady, her hand gripping the umbrella handle, her knuckles pale.

Jack: (turning to her) “You coming?”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “No. This is your arrival, not mine.”

Host: The doors closed, the engine roared, and the train began to move, pulling out of the station with a slow, deliberate grace. Jeeny watched it fade, the light receding into the dark, until only the sound of wheels on rails remained — a song of movement, of distance, of choices finally made.

She exhaled, lifting her face to the damp air, the rain now little more than a whisper.

Host: And there she stood, the echo of his departure still lingering in the air, knowing what Hoffer meant — that humanity clings to the path because the destination frightens it, that we would rather wander forever than arrive at ourselves.

But sometimes, in the silence after the journey, when the last train has gone, and the rain has stopped, a person finally understands —

That arrival is not the end.

It’s the moment when we finally see that we were home all along.