Don't clap too hard - it's a very old building.

Host:
The theatre was half-asleep, its velvet seats empty, its chandeliers dimmed to the soft glow of memory. Dust floated lazily through the shafts of faded stage light, like old applause that refused to die. The smell of timber, velvet, and time filled the air — sweet, melancholic, and dignified.

Outside, the city still pulsed with youth — neon lights, car horns, the chatter of new generations. But inside, the theatre breathed its own slow rhythm, like an old heart still beating against the tide of progress.

On the stage, under a single spotlight, Jack stood staring at the rows of vacant seats. He wore a long coat, the kind that holds a thousand cigarette burns and half a life’s worth of regret.
Jeeny sat in the front row, her notebook on her knees, pen poised but unmoving, her eyes soft and knowing.

Jeeny: “John Osborne once said, ‘Don’t clap too hard — it’s a very old building.’”

Jack: (half-smiling) “Trust a playwright to turn irony into architecture.”

Jeeny: “He wasn’t talking about wood and plaster, Jack. He was talking about the people inside.”

Jack: (looking up at the rafters) “You mean the fragile egos of actors?”

Jeeny: “No. The fragile hearts of dreamers.”

Host: The spotlight flickered, dust motes glinting like small ghosts. The silence of the theatre was thick — not empty, but full of what once was.

Jack: “It’s funny. Every night, audiences clap like the play’s immortal. And every night, the stage ages a little more.”

Jeeny: “Because creation always costs something — even applause has weight.”

Jack: “Weight?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Applause breaks things. It’s celebration with pressure. And the older the soul, the more it cracks under love.”

Host: A faint creak echoed from the rafters — the sound of old wood remembering thunderous nights.

Jack: “You think Osborne feared admiration?”

Jeeny: “He feared decay. He knew beauty can’t stand too much worship. Touch it too hard, and it turns to dust.”

Jack: “So the building’s not just the theatre, then. It’s art itself.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Every masterpiece is an old building — standing, trembling, barely held together by belief.”

Host: The wind slipped through a side door, stirring the tattered curtain. The sound was gentle, like a sigh.

Jack: “You know, I saw this place twenty years ago. Sold-out crowd. Lights, laughter, ovations. The floorboards shook from the applause. Now look at it — tired, quiet, peeling at the seams.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s how it should be. Time applauds differently — softer, slower, but more honest.”

Jack: “You’re too romantic about decay.”

Jeeny: “And you’re too afraid of it.”

Jack: (grinning faintly) “Can’t help it. Every artist fears becoming the building — still standing, but only out of nostalgia.”

Jeeny: “Maybe nostalgia’s not such a curse. Maybe it’s the proof something once mattered.”

Host: The lights dimmed a little more, and a faint echo — an almost imagined applause — rippled through the empty hall. Jack closed his eyes, and for a moment, he seemed to hear it — the ghosts of the audience who once filled the room with breath and belief.

Jack: “You know, when Osborne wrote that line, he was warning us. Not just about fragility — but about arrogance. About assuming that creation can survive endless applause.”

Jeeny: “Because applause turns art into performance, and performance into vanity.”

Jack: “And vanity kills sincerity.”

Jeeny: “Yes. That’s the tragedy of old theatres — they become museums of passion, preserved but lifeless.”

Host: A long pause settled between them. The stage creaked again, like an old man shifting in his sleep.

Jeeny: “Do you ever wonder, Jack, if the applause ever really belonged to the art? Or if it was always for the audience — for their own reflection in the beauty they consumed?”

Jack: “You mean we clap not for the actor, but for the part of ourselves that feels something?”

Jeeny: “Yes. And maybe that’s why Osborne said don’t clap too hard. Because every clap risks shattering the illusion that art belongs to us at all.”

Jack: “Then who does it belong to?”

Jeeny: “To time. To dust. To the silence after the last line.”

Host: She rose slowly, walking up the creaking steps to the stage. The sound of her heels echoed through the empty house — sharp, delicate, reverent. She turned, facing him.

Jeeny: “You know what I love about old buildings, Jack?”

Jack: “What?”

Jeeny: “They never pretend to be young. They just stand there — proud in their imperfection, unashamed of every crack and scar.”

Jack: “Like old artists.”

Jeeny: “Like old souls.”

Host: She walked toward the center, the spotlight warming her face. The dust danced around her, lit golden and alive.

Jeeny: “This stage — it’s not dying. It’s remembering. Every performance, every heartbreak, every truth whispered here still lives in its walls.”

Jack: “You make it sound sacred.”

Jeeny: “It is. Because art, like faith, only exists in what people once believed.”

Jack: “Then maybe the real danger isn’t clapping too hard. Maybe it’s not clapping at all.”

Jeeny: “No. The danger is forgetting that even applause has weight — and that beauty, once touched, is forever changed.”

Host: She stepped closer to him, her eyes bright beneath the dim light.

Jeeny: “We chase permanence, Jack. We want our plays, our poems, our buildings to last forever. But maybe Osborne’s line is a reminder — nothing should survive too much admiration. The best things are fragile by design.”

Jack: “Because fragility keeps them human.”

Jeeny: “And humanity keeps them true.”

Host: The clock on the far wall chimed once — a sound that hung in the air like the closing line of a soliloquy.

Jack looked at the empty seats again, his expression softening — a rare gentleness, like the echo of youth revisiting an older self.

Jack: “Maybe the building isn’t the one at risk of collapse. Maybe it’s us.”

Jeeny: “We’re all old buildings, Jack. Standing from habit. Cracking under the applause we once wanted so badly.”

Jack: “So what do we do?”

Jeeny: “We keep performing. Quietly. Gently. Enough to be heard, not enough to break.”

Host: The theatre went utterly still. The air seemed to listen. The light above flickered once more, and then steadied.

Jeeny reached out, took his hand.

Jeeny: “Don’t clap too hard, Jack.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “Why not?”

Jeeny: “Because we’re very old buildings.”

Host:
Her words hung between them like prayer and warning. The lights dimmed to a soft gold, and in the silence that followed, it was hard to tell whether it was the theatre creaking — or the two of them remembering how to endure.

And somewhere, faintly — as if from another time — the echo of applause rose again:

gentle, reverent, fragile…

The kind that doesn’t break anything,
only reminds you that you’re still standing.

And still worth clapping for.