Being born into the Royal Family is like being born into a mental

Host: The rain was falling in thin, silver threads, soft as whispered accusations against the stone walls of the old London café. Beyond the fogged window, streetlights shimmered, bending through the wet glass like blurred memories. Inside, a fireplace hissed, throwing out a weary glow that painted the room in tones of amber, shadow, and regret.

Jack sat by the window, his coat collar turned up, the smoke from his cigarette curling into lazy question marks. Across from him, Jeeny stirred her tea, her eyes thoughtful, the faintest sad smile resting at the corner of her mouth.

Jack: “Lydon wasn’t wrong, you know. ‘Being born into the Royal Family is like being born into a mental asylum.’ He didn’t even need to exaggerate — that’s the bloody truth. You grow up in a palace, but you never really live. You’re a performance, a symbol, a walking brand of monarchy. Imagine being told from birth that your very existence belongs to the nation.”

Jeeny: “And yet, millions dream of that same life, Jack. The silk, the titles, the attention — they call it destiny, not imprisonment.”

Host: The firelight flickered, dancing across their faces like an argument caught mid-thought. The rain outside quickened, its rhythm now like fingers drumming impatience on the glass. Jack leaned back, exhaling smoke that drifted upward, twisting through the air like something trying to escape.

Jack: “Of course they dream of it. Because they only see the crown, not the chains that hold it in place. They don’t see the rules, the protocols, the press dissecting your every blink. Look at Harry, for God’s sake — a man who tried to run from the institution and got hunted by it instead. Freedom is a fairytale they don’t get to read.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t there power in being seen, even if it’s suffocating? When you’re royal, your suffering isn’t just personal — it becomes symbolic. You can turn your cage into a kind of message, your pain into meaning. That’s why Diana’s story still lingers — she made her prison speak.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice trembled slightly, not from fear, but from empathy’s ache. The fire popped, a spark leaping upward before dying midair. Jack watched it fade, his eyes reflecting both the light and something far darker beneath.

Jack: “Diana made her prison speak, sure — and it killed her. The system devours the ones who make noise. It’s not a monarchy anymore, Jeeny; it’s a machine built on spectacle and sacrifice. You either play your part, or you’re written out of the script.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s true. But isn’t all of society a kind of monarchy now? Everyone’s fighting for attention, living under invisible crowns made of followers, algorithms, and validation. The difference is — the Royals are just the most televised version of what we all endure.”

Host: Her words hung like smoke, slow and shimmering in the half-light. Outside, the rain eased, leaving only a faint murmur against the window. The world beyond the glass seemed smudged, like a painting that had forgotten its outlines.

Jack: “You’re saying we’re all royals in our own little asylums?”

Jeeny: “In a way, yes. We live in curated cages — pretending to be fine, smiling for the audience. Fame, family, image — they all demand a performance. The Royal Family just performs on a bigger stage, with less room to breathe.”

Jack: “That’s a poetic defense, Jeeny, but let’s be honest — being born royal isn’t the same as being born ordinary. The rest of us can still fail in peace. They can’t even sneeze without a headline.”

Jeeny: “But they also can’t be forgotten. Their curse is visibility; our curse is anonymity. Tell me which is worse.”

Host: A pause — long, thoughtful, heavy as velvet. The fire murmured softly, the rain now little more than a distant echo. Jack’s fingers traced the rim of his glass, eyes narrowing as if the truth itself was too sharp to touch directly.

Jack: “You think visibility gives life meaning?”

Jeeny: “Not meaning. But it gives it weight. When you’re seen — truly seen — even your pain matters. That’s what draws people to royalty, to celebrities, to saints and sinners alike. They make the invisible visible.”

Jack: “And they go mad from the light.”

Jeeny: “Only if they forget who they were before the light found them.”

Host: A gust of wind shook the old café door, and for a moment, the flames inside the fireplace wavered. Jack leaned forward, elbows on the table, his expression softening, the usual armor of irony beginning to crack.

Jack: “You ever wonder, Jeeny, what it’d be like to live without all of it — without titles, roles, expectations? Just… to wake up one morning and not belong to anyone?”

Jeeny: “That’s not just the dream of kings, Jack. That’s everyone’s dream — to stop belonging to something that defines you before you can define yourself.”

Host: Her words drifted through the warm air like a lullaby and a rebellion at once. The clock above the counter ticked, each second falling like a small verdict.

Jack: “Then maybe the asylum isn’t the palace. Maybe it’s the world outside, worshipping the idea of monarchy while mocking it at the same time. We’ve built the walls ourselves — and crowned our own wardens.”

Jeeny: “You see? You do believe what Lydon meant — that the asylum isn’t madness itself, but the illusion of sanity built around it.”

Jack: “Exactly. The royals are just our reflection — the collective madness we all feed but pretend we don’t have.”

Host: The light from the fire caught on the rain-streaked glass, and for a heartbeat, their reflections appeared side by side — ghostly, luminous, a pair of spectators peering into the absurd theater of human vanity.

Jeeny: “So what’s the cure then? For the asylum, for fame, for this need to be seen?”

Jack: “Maybe it’s what Meghan and Harry tried — walking out the gate, even when the gate leads into another circus.”

Jeeny: “But at least they tried. And maybe that’s the point — not to escape the cage, but to realize you were never meant to live inside one.”

Host: The fire began to die down, its embers glowing like faint, stubborn memories. Jeeny reached for her coat, standing slowly. Jack didn’t move — his eyes fixed on the window, where the reflection of the streetlight looked like a crown half-tilted, half-broken.

Jack: “Funny thing about cages — they’re always unlocked. We just forget how to walk out.”

Jeeny: “Because walking out means being no one again. And that terrifies us more than the bars themselves.”

Host: She gave a faint smile, then turned toward the door. For a moment, the wind caught her hair, and she looked almost regal — but not in the royal sense, more like a woman who’d learned to carry her own kind of sovereignty.

Jack: “You’d make a better queen than any of them.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. I’d make a better free woman.”

Host: The door opened, and a rush of cold night air swept in — sharp, alive, honest. The fire sputtered, then steadied. Jack watched her disappear into the rain, her silhouette dissolving into the night’s wet glow.

He turned back toward the dying fire, muttering to himself, almost smiling.

Jack: “Maybe Lydon was right. But maybe the real asylum isn’t the palace — it’s the world that keeps kneeling before it.”

Host: Outside, the rain softened, falling like quiet applause. The city lights shimmered, their reflections trembling in the puddles — crowns undone, empires of illusion dissolving into water and night.

And somewhere, between rebellion and royalty, sanity finally found its voice.