Existential for Dessert

Dinner was over, the used plates cleared away. Two glasses of wine sat on the table, the wall clock ticked, the smell of burnt onions still lingered in the air, and two people remained silent. She stared at the only painting on the wall. A still life. Her posture suddenly tensed, and she asked him:
“What is freedom?”

He was engrossed, didn’t look up from the newspaper, and said, “Pardon?” But without waiting for an answer, he added, “There’s a great offer starting tomorrow.”

She kept looking at him questioningly. He caught her gaze, misread her expression, and started to quote the offer. “You know—” He pushed the newspaper toward her.

“We already have everything we need. And I asked you what freedom is,” she replied firmly. He pulled the newspaper back. “But…” he hesitated, then looked at her briefly. “Freedom? Why are you asking about freedom now?”

“Because art is free,” she said, returning her gaze to the painting.
“Yes, people decided that at some point.”

She remained still as the ticking of the wall clock continued. “So art is only free because people decided it is? Then it’s not really free if it depends on what people decide.”

He thought for a moment. “As long as people grant it that freedom, yes.”
“Does only humans determine what is free and what freedom is?”

After a moment of silence, he sighed and returned the question:
“What do you think?”
“Do you think this topic is so unimportant?” she asked incredulously.
“I just think everything is fine as it is. I can think whatever I like,” he replied, eyes back on the newspaper.

“And what if someday we’re no longer allowed to ask ourselves such questions? Or if someone takes away the answers to these questions from us?”
“You can ask yourself any question,” he tried to reassure her.
“Yes, I can ask any question, including this one,” she countered.
“Yes, then everything is fine. You may, art may, everyone is free, everything is fine,” he said without looking at her.

“That’s the point—art has nothing to do with being allowed! Art doesn’t have to, art cannot be commanded, art is not something or anything—it just does its thing anyway.”

She paused briefly, then continued passionately: “Art is powerful. Just like thought. That it may is nice, but ultimately irrelevant. Art will always find a way as long as there are humans who remember this boundless freedom.”

“You’re talking about love, not art,” he said.
“I’m talking about freedom and the laws that liberate something that could never be imprisoned. The idea that art could be regulated is an illusion. The same goes for love, yes.”

“But there are many laws concerning love. Marriage is regulated, and same-sex partnerships often face struggles. Homosexuality is still considered a crime in some places.” He flipped the page awkwardly.

“And yet I believe that thought, love, and art are free, no matter what laws or other people say,” she said, her gaze again fixed on the painting.

He straightened his newspaper and looked at her for a moment. “You may believe whatever you want. I just want to point out that what you’re saying doesn’t match reality.”

Raising her eyebrows, she looked at him. “I may? Which of my freedoms still needs a permit?”
“Okay, then you have the right to believe whatever you want. That doesn’t change the fact that in reality—”
“Reality is constantly changing. And how is it possible that we have a right to free speech, to artistic expression, to religious freedom, and a right to privacy—and at the same time, you speak so casually about being allowed? Having a permit for something is a fundamentally different idea than possessing the right to it.”

“Still, humans decided that we have these rights, so someone must have granted them to us at some point.”
“Do we naturally have indivisible rights, or only because human laws decided so?”
“I’m not a lawyer, I don’t know. I just know that I don’t know where you’re going with this.”

“I believe,” she said, looking back at the painting, “that these freedoms are natural. They were not given or granted. They were fought for. In that sense, they were a human need, and the laws had to adapt to this need.”

“Alright,” he said with a smile, “I throw down the gauntlet. Hereby, I exercise my rights and will enjoy freedom of the press.”

She tore her gaze from the painting, returned to the dining table, serious: “Is the topic really so unimportant?” she repeated mechanically.

He adjusted his blinders, took a sip of wine, and shrugged: “Everything is fine, after all.”

AI assisted translation