We must look for ways to be an active force in our own lives. We

Host:
The sun was setting behind the hills, bleeding orange fire across the horizon. The city below glimmered like a field of stars that had fallen and decided to stay. On the rooftop of an old building, time seemed to slow — the air thick with the scent of rain, concrete, and possibility.

Jack stood near the edge, his hands gripping the railing, his face half-lit by the dying light. His grey eyes were focused, but distant — like a man who could see the future, yet feared to step into it.

Jeeny sat cross-legged on the rooftop floor, surrounded by sketches and notes, a thermos of coffee beside her, her hair catching the last glint of the sunlight. She watched him silently, sensing the weight of what was unspoken.

Between them, the wind carried the echo of Les Brown’s voice — that warm, thunderous conviction wrapped in simplicity:
"We must look for ways to be an active force in our own lives. We must take charge of our own destinies, design a life of substance and truly begin to live our dreams."

Jeeny: softly He said “design a life of substance.” Not a life of success, not a life of safety — but substance. That’s a rare word, Jack. People don’t use it anymore.

Jack: without turning Because substance doesn’t trend. Everyone wants to be seen, not to be real.

Jeeny: smiling faintly You sound like you’re describing yourself.

Jack: turns, his voice sharp but tired Maybe I am. I’ve been drifting — doing what’s expected, not what’s intended. You ever feel like your own life’s a script you didn’t write?

Jeeny: nods slowly All the time. But that’s the thing — you can always rewrite it. That’s what Brown meant: you either exist, or you design.

Host:
A gust of wind swept through, scattering her papers across the roof. They fluttered like birds trying to escape, white fragments of ideas chasing the sky. Jeeny laughed, light and genuine, as she scrambled to gather them.

Jack bent to help, his hands brushing against hers for a moment — brief, but electric, like two currents meeting in the same storm.

Jack: grinning faintly You always talk about dreams like they’re a kind of blueprint. But what if you’re just not built for them? What if you don’t have the tools?

Jeeny: sitting back down, eyes alight Then you make them. Dreams aren’t given; they’re constructed. You don’t need permission to start building your own life.

Jack: leans against the railing Easy for you to say. You’ve always had fire in you. I’ve spent years trying to avoid burning.

Jeeny: looking up at him, voice soft but strong Maybe that’s your problem, Jack. You’ve been protecting the ashes instead of chasing the flame.

Host:
The sun slipped lower, leaving behind a bruise of color across the sky — purple, gold, and fading red. The city lights below flickered awake, one by one, like thoughts forming in the mind of night.

The sound of traffic rose faintly, but up here, there was only the whisper of wind, the heartbeat of ambition, and the tension between two people standing at the crossroads of choice.

Jack: after a long silence You really think we can just… decide our destiny? Like flipping a switch?

Jeeny: Not like a switch. More like tuning an instrument. You can’t change the notes that exist, but you can decide how they sound when you play them.

Jack: looks at her, intrigued despite himself So, you’re saying life’s not about freedom, but about focus.

Jeeny: Exactly. Freedom without direction is just another kind of prison.

Jack: quietly You always make it sound so simple.

Jeeny: It’s not simple, it’s intentional. That’s different.

Host:
A plane cut across the clouds, leaving a white scar through the darkening sky. The faint roar faded into silence, but its trail lingered — a reminder of movement, of purpose, of someone going somewhere.

Jeeny watched it with a quiet smile, then turned to Jack, who was still staring at the city below, as if it were a mirror of every path he never took.

Jeeny: softly You know what I love about the sky, Jack? It never asks permission to change. It just does.

Jack: without looking at her Change isn’t the hard part. It’s believing you’re allowed to.

Jeeny: gently You are. We all are. But you have to be the active force. The architect, not the passenger.

Jack: turns to her And what if I don’t know what to build?

Jeeny: stands up, looking out over the city Then start with what hurts, or what calls. Both are directions.

Jack: bitterly And what if neither answers?

Jeeny: smiles sadly Then you start moving anyway. Motion creates meaning.

Host:
The air cooled, brushing against their skin like the touch of an unseen presence. The city below now glowed like an ocean of gold, and their shadows stretched long across the rooftop, merging at the edges, indistinguishable.

Jack: quietly You think we’re all meant for something, Jeeny? Some kind of destiny?

Jeeny: pauses I think we’re all meant to mean something. The difference is what we do about it.

Jack: half-smiling You sound like Les Brown himself.

Jeeny: grinning Maybe I just listened. He said we must “take charge of our destinies.” That means stop waiting for the world to give, and start choosing to live.

Jack: after a long silence I’ve been waiting for something to happen for so long… maybe I forgot I could make it happen.

Jeeny: steps closer, her voice a whisper Then remember now. Design your own life, Jack. Even if it’s messy. Even if it’s hard. A life of substance isn’t clean — it’s alive.

Host:
A soft wind rose, carrying the faint sound of the city — sirens, laughter, music. The world below kept turning, but up here, it felt like beginning again.

Jack reached for one of her sketches, a simple drawing of a bridge arching over water. He stared at it for a long moment, then looked up, his eyes steadier than before.

Jack: quietly Maybe it’s time to cross something.

Jeeny: smiling Or build it.

Jack: nods slowly Yeah… maybe that’s what I was intended to do.

Host:
The camera pulled back — two silhouettes against a city of light, the wind teasing their hair, the night still young with promise.

The skyline shimmered below, every window a story, every light a dream still burning.

And as the scene faded, only the echo of Brown’s words remained — quiet, resolute, and eternal:

That to truly live,
we must stop drifting,
and start designing.

To be the active force in our own existence,
and to turn every dream into the shape of a life we dare to build.

Fade out.