A famous person to themselves, they don't get up in the morning

Host: The night had settled over Dublin like a soft wool blanket, heavy and warm with the hum of the city still lingering in the air. The pub was nearly empty now — just the low murmur of a bartender wiping glasses, the hiss of a dying fireplace, and two voices carrying through the dim gold light.

Jack sat in the far corner booth, his jacket slung over the seat, a half-empty pint of Guinness before him. His grey eyes looked tired, though not from drink — from something older, quieter, more familiar: the weight of observation. Across from him, Jeeny leaned on her elbow, her dark hair loose around her shoulders, the firelight catching in her eyes like embers that refused to die.

Outside, rain tapped softly on the windowpane, a gentle rhythm that seemed to echo the words that had sparked the conversation.

Jeeny: “Van Morrison once said, ‘A famous person to themselves, they don’t get up in the morning and think, I’m famous. I’m not famous to me. Famous is a perception.’”

Jack: “He’s right. Fame’s a trick of the light. Like a reflection on the water — looks solid until you touch it.”

Jeeny: “But it changes people. You can’t pretend it doesn’t. Fame is a mirror, but it’s one that bends reality.”

Jack: “It doesn’t bend reality — it bends perception. And perception isn’t reality. People think fame transforms someone, but it just magnifies what’s already there. The arrogant become unbearable. The kind become saints. But underneath, they’re still just... human.”

Host: The fire crackled, a small burst of orange light illuminating the shadows on Jack’s face. He spoke like a man who’d seen behind the curtain — who knew the cost of illusions but still couldn’t stop chasing their shape.

Jeeny: “You sound like someone who doesn’t believe in admiration.”

Jack: “Admiration’s fine. Worship is poison. We build gods out of people, then crucify them for being human. Look at Amy Winehouse, Robin Williams, Princess Diana — fame didn’t save them. It devoured them.”

Jeeny: “But doesn’t that say more about us than them? About our hunger to see them shine and then watch them burn? Maybe fame reveals the sickness of the audience, not the star.”

Host: Her voice softened, but her eyes glowed, filled with that mixture of pity and conviction that always unsettled him.

Jack: “Maybe. But they step into that light willingly. No one drags a person onto a stage at gunpoint.”

Jeeny: “That’s not fair. Artists create because they have to. It’s like breathing. The fame is accidental — a side effect of truth reaching too many ears.”

Jack: “And yet once it comes, they play the part. They can’t pretend not to. You think Morrison didn’t enjoy his fame? Every artist who says they hate it still profits from the myth it builds.”

Jeeny: “Maybe he wasn’t denying that. Maybe he meant that fame is something given, not felt. You can’t experience fame from the inside. It’s always someone else’s vision of you.”

Host: The rain outside grew heavier, casting streaks of light down the window, warping the city’s reflection into a kaleidoscope of color. In that distorted glass, their own faces merged, two silhouettes blurred by rainlight and whiskey dreams.

Jack: “So what are you saying — fame’s just a trick of collective imagination?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s like the moon’s reflection on the sea — beautiful, yes, but untouchable. The person standing on the shore and the person under the moon aren’t seeing the same thing.”

Jack: “But one of them’s still in the spotlight. Try telling that to someone who can’t walk the street without a camera in their face.”

Jeeny: “But that’s what Morrison meant, Jack. They don’t feel famous. Fame exists only in the gaze of others. Inside, they still wake up tired, brush their teeth, spill coffee, doubt themselves. Fame doesn’t change the rhythm of the heart.”

Host: Jack laughed, not out of joy, but with that rough, bitter sound that always carried an edge of truth.

Jack: “You sound romantic about it. You think it’s poetic — the lonely famous soul misunderstood by the world. But I’ve seen it up close. Fame isn’t just perception; it’s corrosion. It eats privacy, it feeds paranoia, and it replaces authenticity with performance.”

Jeeny: “And yet, the performer chooses the mask. Some find freedom in that performance — Bowie did. He became his art. He showed that you can wear a mask and still tell the truth.”

Jack: “Yeah, until you forget which one’s your real face.”

Host: The firewood popped, a sudden burst of spark that made Jeeny flinch slightly, her eyes flicking to the flames as if searching for meaning there.

Jeeny: “But isn’t that true for everyone? Even those without fame wear masks. You wear one every day — cynicism. It protects you. We all curate versions of ourselves to fit the world’s gaze. Fame just makes the mirror bigger.”

Jack: “Maybe. But the bigger the mirror, the harder it is to see past your own reflection.”

Jeeny: “Or the easier it becomes to realize it’s just glass.”

Host: Her words hung in the smoke-filled air, soft but piercing, like a note played on an old violin. Jack’s eyes dropped to the table, his fingers tracing the moisture ring left by his glass.

Jack: “You really think you could handle being famous?”

Jeeny: “If I ever were, I’d remind myself that fame belongs to the eyes that see me, not the soul that lives in me.”

Jack: “Sounds noble. But wait until everyone has an opinion on your soul. Wait until your truth becomes their entertainment.”

Jeeny: “That’s the price of being visible, Jack. But I’d rather be seen and misunderstood than invisible and forgotten.”

Host: The clock above the bar ticked softly, each second marking the distance between two truths — his realism, her faith. Outside, the rain began to ease, the drizzle softening into mist, turning the streetlights into halos.

Jack: “Fame’s not real, Jeeny. It’s currency — like digital gold. People trade attention for validation until they forget why they started.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But if perception can destroy, it can also uplift. Think of Malala — her fame gave her voice power. It carried truth where bullets couldn’t. Fame isn’t evil; it’s a tool. It depends on the hands that hold it.”

Jack: “And most people’s hands shake when they’re handed that much power.”

Jeeny: “Then the lesson isn’t to fear fame — it’s to know yourself before it arrives. The ones who fall are the ones who believed the mirror too much.”

Host: The bartender turned off the radio, and the pub fell silent except for the crackling of the fire. The two sat quietly, watching the flames, the dance of light across the wood, the shadows that mimicked their thoughts.

Jack: “So fame’s a perception… maybe life is, too.”

Jeeny: “Now you’re thinking like Morrison.”

Jack: “Or maybe just like a man who’s realizing he’s been famous to his ghosts all along.”

Jeeny: “You mean, to yourself?”

Jack: “Yeah. To the person I used to be. The one who thought recognition meant meaning.”

Jeeny: “And what does it mean now?”

Jack: “It means I’d rather be real to one person than famous to millions.”

Host: Jeeny smiled, her eyes soft, glowing in the firelight.

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s the only kind of fame that matters — the kind that doesn’t need witnesses.”

Host: Outside, the rain stopped entirely. The street shimmered, empty, peaceful, the puddles reflecting the pub’s golden light. Jack stood, tossing coins onto the table, and Jeeny followed, their shadows stretching long as they walked toward the door.

The camera lingered on the window — the faint reflection of their faces still there, blurred and fading.

Host: Fame, perhaps, was just that — a reflection that disappears the moment you stop looking. But the warmth of their laughter, the sound of footsteps fading into the wet night — that was real, and it belonged to no one’s perception.

The fire dimmed, the pub quieted, and through the mist, the city lights gleamed like stars in a puddle, reminding the world that even the smallest reflections hold a kind of truth — if you know where to look.