You don't have to be the Dalai Lama to tell people that life's

Host: The afternoon light poured through the windows of a nearly empty train station, thick and warm like honey over dust. The announcement board flickered lazily, as if even the schedules were tired of running. The air smelled faintly of old metal, coffee, and the sharp nostalgia of people leaving or coming home.

Jack sat on a wooden bench, a half-finished newspaper folded beside him, his coat rumpled from travel. His eyes, gray and quiet, watched the tracks where the train had just vanished. Jeeny appeared from the far platform, her hair caught by the light, her step unhurried, her hands holding two paper cups of coffee.

She handed one to him, smiling in that calm, knowing way she always did.

Jeeny: “John Cleese once said, ‘You don’t have to be the Dalai Lama to tell people that life’s about change.’”
(she sits beside him) “And yet, we all act like we need a holy man to remind us every time something falls apart.”

Jack: (takes the coffee, smirking) “That’s because people hate change. We talk about it like it’s a virtue, but what we really want is control. We want things to stay predictable. Manageable. Familiar.”

Host: A train horn sounded far off, low and mournful, echoing through the wide, hollow space. The light shifted slightly, turning gold into amber.

Jeeny: “But isn’t that what makes life unbearable? The pretending? We hold on to things that are already gone, Jack. Jobs, people, dreams. Even pain. We’d rather rot in what we know than risk something new.”

Jack: (shrugs) “Maybe stability isn’t rot. Maybe it’s survival. Change doesn’t always mean progress. Sometimes it’s just chaos dressed up as growth.”

Host: The clock above them ticked loudly, each second an insistent reminder that even stillness is temporary.

Jeeny: “You sound like every man afraid to start over.”

Jack: “And you sound like every idealist who’s never watched the ground move under their feet.”

Jeeny: (laughs softly) “Oh, I’ve felt it move. When my father died, I thought the world ended. But it didn’t—it just changed. Pain taught me that endings aren’t final. They’re just transitions with poor timing.”

Jack: “That’s poetic. But not everyone recovers. Some people don’t transition—they just break.”

Host: A pause. The hum of the station lights filled the silence. A small child ran past, his laughter chasing echoes down the corridor.

Jeeny: “Maybe breaking is part of it. You don’t rebuild a house without tearing down the walls first.”

Jack: (smirking) “You’re comparing trauma to renovation now?”

Jeeny: “In a way, yes. Life demolishes what doesn’t serve us anymore. It’s messy, it’s loud, it’s painful—but without it, we’d be stuck in the same old rooms forever.”

Host: The light dimmed slightly as a cloud passed overhead. A gust of wind rolled through the station, carrying the smell of rain and distant tracks cooling in the shade.

Jack: “Change sounds noble when you talk about it. But most of it isn’t spiritual—it’s just loss. Divorce, layoffs, illness. The universe doesn’t care if we grow; it just keeps moving.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And that’s the point. It moves—with or without us. We don’t get to stop the current, but we can choose how to swim.”

Host: She looked at him then, her eyes glowing softly under the fading light—half reflection, half fire. Jack glanced back, his expression unreadable, something fragile tugging at his cynicism.

Jack: “You make it sound like acceptance.”

Jeeny: “It is. Acceptance isn’t weakness, Jack—it’s wisdom. It’s saying, ‘I can’t control the storm, but I can still dance in the rain.’”

Jack: “You really believe that?”

Jeeny: “I have to. Otherwise, what’s the alternative? Living in fear every time the wind changes direction?”

Host: The station speakers crackled to life—“Next departure: Track 3.” A faint whistle cut through the air. Jack shifted, the sound somehow unsettling in its familiarity.

Jack: “When I was younger, I thought I’d have everything figured out by thirty. Career, marriage, house—the usual checklist. Now I’m thirty-five, divorced, downsized, renting a room smaller than my old office. You tell me, Jeeny—is this change or failure?”

Jeeny: “Neither. It’s life reminding you that the map isn’t the territory. You planned the route, but forgot the road floods sometimes.”

Host: Jack let out a laugh—a tired, honest sound that softened the lines around his mouth.

Jack: “You always have a metaphor ready, don’t you?”

Jeeny: “Only because I’ve drowned enough times to know how to float.”

Host: The rain finally began—soft at first, tapping the glass roof, then growing steadier. The air filled with the clean scent of wet stone and motion.

Jeeny: “Do you know what I like about Cleese’s quote?”

Jack: “That it sounds like a punchline?”

Jeeny: “That it’s humble. You don’t need to be enlightened to understand change. You just need to live long enough. Every heartbreak, every failure, every goodbye—it’s all the same teacher wearing different faces.”

Jack: “So we’re all students of chaos, then?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The only difference is whether we drop out or graduate.”

Host: Jack smiled at that, a slow, reluctant smile that felt earned. He took a long sip of his coffee, now lukewarm, and stared at the trains outside—one arriving, one leaving, endless exchange.

Jack: “Funny thing is, when you’re young, you think change is adventure. When you’re older, it just feels like exhaustion.”

Jeeny: “That’s because you’re still trying to control the lesson. The secret isn’t fighting change—it’s participating in it.”

Jack: “Participating in it,” he repeated, almost to himself. “Sounds easier said than done.”

Jeeny: “Everything wise does.”

Host: The rain began to ease, the sound fading into gentle rhythm. The sun broke briefly through the clouds, casting a soft beam across their faces.

Jack turned to Jeeny, something quieter now in his tone.

Jack: “Maybe that’s what experience really is—not what happens to you, but what you do with what happens.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. You don’t have to be the Dalai Lama to know that.”

Host: They both laughed, quietly, the kind of laughter that doesn’t need joy—just recognition.

A train pulled into the station, its doors sliding open with a hiss of promise. Passengers shuffled, exchanged brief glances, and disappeared inside.

Jack stood, picking up his bag, the weight of it no heavier than before, but somehow easier to carry.

Jeeny: “Where are you headed this time?”

Jack: “Not sure. Maybe that’s the point.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is.”

Host: He looked back at her one last time before stepping onto the platform. She stayed seated, her coffee in hand, watching him walk toward the next chapter he hadn’t planned for.

The train groaned, the wheels began to turn, and the motion caught the morning light like a mirror of becoming.

As it disappeared down the tracks, Jeeny whispered softly—
not to him, not even to herself, but to the air between:

“That’s all life ever is, Jack—just the sound of departures.”

And in the quiet that followed, the station exhaled—empty, beautiful, and alive with the hum of change.