You're only as young as the last time you changed your mind.

Host: The café sat on the corner of a restless city street — warm light spilling through the windows, rain tapping gently against the glass. It was late afternoon, the hour when conversations deepen without meaning to. The smell of coffee and wet asphalt mingled with the low hum of jazz leaking from the old speakers above the bar.

At a small table near the back, Jack stirred his espresso absently, his reflection trembling in the dark liquid. Across from him, Jeeny leaned back in her chair, her notebook half-open, a pen resting between her fingers.

The city outside rushed by — people in motion, heads down, umbrellas up. Inside, time had slowed.

Jeeny: (smiling softly) “Timothy Leary once said — ‘You’re only as young as the last time you changed your mind.’”

Jack: (raising an eyebrow) “So, by that logic, I’m ancient.”

Jeeny: “You? You change your mind every five minutes.”

Jack: “Not about the important stuff.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s the problem.”

Host: The rain outside quickened, turning the windowpane into a living mirror. Reflections of neon signs rippled across their table — red, blue, gold — like fleeting thoughts that couldn’t stay still.

Jack: “I used to think changing your mind meant weakness. Like you were betraying your old self.”

Jeeny: “No. It means you’re brave enough to outgrow them.”

Jack: (chuckling) “So, what — the secret to eternal youth is indecision?”

Jeeny: (grinning) “Not indecision. Evolution.”

Host: The barista clattered cups behind the counter, steam hissing into the air like punctuation. The café felt like a sanctuary for wanderers — the kind of place where ideas could sit down and exhale.

Jack: “Leary always fascinated me. He was reckless, sure, but he understood something most people never grasp — that youth isn’t an age, it’s a posture. The ability to keep learning.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s not about skin or speed, it’s about flexibility — of thought, of spirit.”

Jack: “Then I guess the opposite of youth isn’t age. It’s certainty.”

Jeeny: (leaning forward) “Yes. Certainty hardens the mind the way time hardens arteries. The minute you stop being curious, you start dying in slow motion.”

Host: A bus passed outside, splashing water up onto the glass, distorting the streetlights into impressionist strokes. Jack’s eyes followed the motion, thoughtful, his voice quiet when he spoke again.

Jack: “You ever notice how the people who cling to their opinions the tightest are usually the ones most afraid of changing?”

Jeeny: “Of course. Change means admitting you might’ve been wrong. And that takes more courage than standing still.”

Jack: “You ever changed your mind about something big?”

Jeeny: (pausing) “Yes. About forgiveness.”

Jack: “How so?”

Jeeny: “I used to think it was a gift you gave others. Now I know it’s a gift you give yourself.”

Host: The rain softened, a rhythm like breathing. A man at the counter laughed loudly, the sound fleeting and bright. It passed through their conversation like a reminder that the world was still alive, still changing.

Jack: “You know, when I was younger, I thought I had everything figured out — what I believed, what I wanted, who I’d be. Every conviction felt like concrete. But life… has a way of teaching you that even concrete cracks.”

Jeeny: “And when it does, the light gets in.”

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

Jeeny: “You sound like someone learning to be young again.”

Host: The clock ticked softly above the espresso machine, each second stretching like a drop of thought. Jack looked down at his coffee, then back up at her.

Jack: “You think people stop changing their minds because they get older — or because they get tired?”

Jeeny: “Both. But mostly because they mistake stability for peace.”

Jack: “And you don’t?”

Jeeny: “No. Peace isn’t the absence of change. It’s the ability to stay balanced while the ground shifts.”

Host: The rain stopped, leaving the air cool and electric. The city’s noise filtered back in — horns, footsteps, distant voices. Inside, everything felt clearer, sharper, like a photograph coming into focus.

Jack: “So, if change keeps us young, then staying rigid makes us old.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Youth isn’t measured in years; it’s measured in adaptability. In how willing you are to revise yourself.”

Jack: “Then the wisest people should be the youngest.”

Jeeny: “In spirit, they are. Wisdom without flexibility turns into arrogance.”

Jack: (grinning) “So, every time I change my mind, I’m basically reversing time.”

Jeeny: (laughing) “Exactly. Every new thought is a rebirth.”

Host: The barista dimmed the lights slightly — the universal signal that the day was winding down. Outside, the streetlights flickered on, each one carrying the ghost of the day before.

Jack: (quietly) “You think that’s why Leary chased so many wild ideas — psychedelics, consciousness, revolution — because he couldn’t stand the thought of getting old inside?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. Or maybe he just understood that transformation isn’t madness. It’s survival.”

Jack: “And maybe we’re all addicts for certainty, pretending it’s safety.”

Jeeny: “Yes. But the real courage is in uncertainty — in waking up every morning and asking, ‘What if I’m wrong?’ and still daring to live anyway.”

Host: The camera would pull back, showing them in the warm half-light — two figures surrounded by the hum of life moving forward. Outside, puddles reflected the city in motion: buses passing, neon signs flickering, a young couple laughing as they ran across the street.

The scene lingered — not on movement, but on openness. The café was small, but inside it, the world felt wide again.

And as the last note of jazz faded into silence, Timothy Leary’s words would rise — bright, restless, defiant:

That youth is not in the body,
but in the mind’s willingness to evolve.

That every changed belief
is a small resurrection —
proof that the heart still hungers for newness,
that curiosity still hums beneath the ribs.

And that aging begins
not when time passes,
but when the mind stops moving.

For those who dare to unlearn,
to question, to shed old selves like skin —
the world stays forever unfinished,
forever possible,
forever young.