For me, comedy starts as a spew, a kind of explosion, and then

Host: The night was a riot of color and noise. Neon signs blinked above the city street like restless eyes, and the air vibrated with the hum of traffic, laughter, and loneliness. The rain had just ended, but the pavement still shimmered, reflecting the chaos of light and movement.

Inside a small, dim bar, the stage was empty, save for a microphone standing under a single yellow bulb — like a confession booth for lost souls. Jack sat at the counter, a half-drunk glass of whiskey beside him. Jeeny was across the room, laughing softly with the bartender, her eyes bright, yet shadowed — like someone trying to hold light in a fist.

When she walked over, she carried that same quiet storm with her.

Jeeny: “You know what Robin Williams once said?” she began, sliding into the seat beside him. “For me, comedy starts as a spew, a kind of explosion… it comes out of a deeper, darker side. Maybe it comes from anger… because I’m outraged by cruel absurdities, hypocrisy — even within yourself, where it’s hardest to see.”

Jack: (a smirk) “Yeah, I remember that one. Always thought it sounded like a man trying to laugh himself sane.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s exactly what he was doing.”

Jack: “Or maybe that’s what we all do — joke about what we can’t fix. Hide pain behind punchlines. Dress our wounds in sarcasm and call it art.”

Jeeny: (gently) “You sound like you’ve done that a few times.”

Jack: “Don’t we all?”

Host: The bartender turned down the lights a little more. The room sank into warm shadow, and the neon glow from the window washed their faces in blue and amber. Music — something slow, smoky, with a saxophone — drifted from a corner speaker.

Jeeny: “You ever wonder why the funniest people are often the saddest?”

Jack: “Because they’re the only ones who can see the whole circus and still clap. Everyone else just cries or runs away.”

Jeeny: “That’s cynical, even for you.”

Jack: “It’s honest. Comedy isn’t born from joy, Jeeny — it’s born from pain. You think Chaplin made people laugh because he was happy being a tramp? He mocked the world that crushed him. Same with Robin — every joke was a flare in the dark. He was laughing to keep breathing.”

Jeeny: (quietly) “Maybe that’s what makes it beautiful.”

Jack: “Or tragic.”

Host: A couple at the far end of the bar laughed loudly, their glasses clinking in a brief explosion of joy. Then the laughter faded, like a wave retreating, leaving only silence behind.

Jeeny: “He said comedy comes from anger. I think I understand that. When you’re angry at the world, but you can’t destroy it — you mock it instead. You turn cruelty into laughter, because that’s the only way to survive it.”

Jack: “Yeah, but it’s a poison too. You start seeing everything as a joke, even the things that should hurt. You start laughing at your own misery, until you forget it’s not supposed to be funny anymore.”

Jeeny: “Isn’t that still better than drowning in it?”

Jack: “Maybe. Or maybe it’s just drowning with a smile.”

Host: Jeeny’s gaze softened, her reflection trembling in the glass before her. Jack lit a cigarette, the flame flickering against his grey eyes, carving shadows across his face. The smoke rose slowly, spiraling like a thought that refused to settle.

Jeeny: “You sound like you’re describing yourself.”

Jack: “I might be.” (He takes a drag, exhales slowly.) “I’ve been angry for years — at lies, at politics, at people pretending to be good while bleeding others dry. But mostly, I’m angry at myself — for not being different.”

Jeeny: “That’s what he meant — even within yourself, where it’s hardest to see. The cruelty in you, the hypocrisy. We all have it. The trick is to see it and still laugh — not because you don’t care, but because you do.”

Jack: “That’s a beautiful idea, Jeeny. But it’s romantic nonsense. Anger doesn’t heal you. It just burns slower when you joke about it.”

Jeeny: “And silence burns faster. At least laughter gives it shape — like sculpting fire into light.”

Host: The music shifted, a low rhythm of bass and drums that matched the pulse of the night. The smell of rain-soaked streets drifted in through the open door, carrying a hint of asphalt, tobacco, and memory.

Jack looked up — at the stage, at the microphone, at the emptiness waiting.

Jack: “You ever been on stage?”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Once. At a college night. I told a story about my mother’s cooking and my ex-boyfriend’s allergies. Everyone laughed. But after, I felt… empty.”

Jack: “That’s the truth of it. You give them your pain, they give you applause. It’s a trade — not a cure.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s not supposed to be a cure. Maybe it’s just a way to share the wound. To say, ‘Look, it hurts here too.’”

Jack: (nodding slowly) “Yeah. A kind of communion in brokenness.”

Host: The light from the bar’s sign flickered, casting the word “OPEN” in uneven red glow over their faces — half light, half shadow, like truth and deception sharing the same skin.

Jeeny: “Robin Williams wasn’t afraid to show the darkness behind his laughter. That’s what made him human. But it’s also what broke him. He could see the absurdity of the world, but he couldn’t always forgive it.”

Jack: “Or himself.”

Jeeny: “That’s the hardest part, isn’t it? Seeing the hypocrisy in yourself and still trying to make people smile.”

Jack: “Yeah. Because the mirror always laughs last.”

Host: Jeeny looked down, her hands trembling slightly, as if holding the weight of every smile that had ever hurt to make. Jack stubbed out his cigarette, the ash falling like grey snow. The room had grown quieter, as though the walls themselves were listening.

Jeeny: “Do you think that’s what it means to be a comedian? To carry darkness so others can feel a little lighter?”

Jack: “Maybe. Or maybe it’s just running from silence — because silence is where the truth lives.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe laughter is how we bargain with it.”

Jack: (a faint smile) “You really believe in finding light in the dark, don’t you?”

Jeeny: “I have to. Otherwise, what’s the point of seeing it?”

Host: The bartender called last orders, and the music faded. The neon from outside washed the floor in a pool of red, reflecting like spilled blood. Jack stood, pulled on his coat, and for a moment, the anger in his eyes softened — like ice melting just before it cracks.

Jack: “You know, maybe Robin was right. Maybe comedy really does start with an explosion. But maybe it’s not about sculpting it — maybe it’s about surviving it.”

Jeeny: (standing beside him) “And if we can laugh at what tries to destroy us, maybe we already have.”

Host: They stepped outside, into the cool night, where the city hummed with madness and music. The rain puddles mirrored the stars, fragmented, but still shining.

Jack lit another cigarette, offering her one. She shook her head, smiling faintly.

For a moment, they stood in the soft glow of a flickering streetlight, laughing quietly — not because the world was kind, but because it wasn’t.

And in that shared laughter, they found what Robin had spoken of: that from the darkest corners of the soul, from anger, from outrage, from absurdity itself, something human could still emerge — raw, wounded, and beautifully alive.

Host: The camera would pull back, the street shrinking into a mosaic of lights, voices, and shadows. And somewhere, between laughter and loneliness, between truth and performance, the echo of a comedian’s heart would still beat — exploding, sculpting, forgiving.