For me, hearing my voice is sometimes a little nauseating

Host:
The studio lights glowed a dim, nostalgic gold — the kind of light that feels like memory. The air was thick with the faint scent of dust, coffee, and the unmistakable warmth of old sound equipment. On the wall, vinyl records gleamed like fragments of time — gold, black, silver — spinning stories of decades past. A string of Christmas lights hung lazily over the mixing console, their colors reflecting faintly off the glass window that separated the booth from the recording room.

In that booth, Jack sat behind the microphone, headphones around his neck. A mug of cold cocoa sat beside him, untouched. He stared at the red light above the door — RECORDING — though the session had long since ended. Across from him, Jeeny leaned back in her chair, one knee crossed over the other, her scarf still dusted with flakes from the cold night outside.

The faint sound of "Merry Christmas, Darling" drifted through the studio speakers, a classic from another era. The kind of voice that never dies — smooth, sentimental, impossibly sincere.

Jeeny: smiling softly, quoting “Johnny Mathis once said — ‘For me, hearing my voice is sometimes a little nauseating, especially at Christmas.’”

Jack: letting out a small laugh “You’ve got to love that honesty. A man who’s been the soundtrack to a thousand Christmas dinners — and he can’t stand his own echo.”

Jeeny: grinning “Maybe that’s the curse of art — being haunted by your own creation.”

Host:
The Christmas lights flickered, painting small reflections in the studio glass. The music shifted into silence, leaving behind the faint hum of the speakers. Somewhere in the distance, the city exhaled — horns, laughter, and the gentle, tired rhythm of winter.

Jack ran a hand through his hair, glancing at the microphone like it was an old rival.

Jack: quietly “I get it, though. You spend your whole life pouring yourself into sound, and then one day it becomes someone else’s nostalgia. You stop hearing your voice — you hear your ghost.”

Jeeny: softly “It’s strange, isn’t it? The way a voice can outlive the person who gave it. Mathis became Christmas. People don’t even realize it’s him — they just hear comfort.”

Jack: nodding slowly “And comfort has a way of trapping you. Imagine being known forever for joy — even when you’re just tired.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “That’s the bittersweet part of legacy. The song plays long after the singer’s done performing.”

Host:
The heater clicked, blowing a slow wave of warm air through the room. A few old music sheets rustled on the desk. The quiet felt heavy, like the pause between verses.

Jeeny looked at the faded Mathis record spinning on the turntable — the cover showing him mid-laugh, wrapped in a scarf, his voice frozen in eternal youth.

Jeeny: softly “Do you think it’s possible to get sick of yourself like that? To grow allergic to your own art?”

Jack: after a pause “Definitely. I think every creator does. Because when you make something true, it traps a version of you in time. And every time you hear it again, you meet your younger self — the one who was still hoping, still reaching.”

Jeeny: nodding “And that reflection doesn’t always feel kind.”

Jack: quietly “Especially at Christmas.”

Jeeny: half-smiling “Because Christmas amplifies everything — joy, loneliness, nostalgia. It’s the world’s loudest mirror.”

Host:
The studio clock ticked above them — slow, deliberate, the sound of time behaving as it always does: steady for the listener, uneven for the dreamer.

Jack turned up the fader, letting another Mathis track play softly — “It’s Not for Me to Say.” The old warmth of the vinyl crackle filled the silence between them.

Jeeny: thoughtfully “You know what’s beautiful though? The fact that he still recorded, still sang. Even when he couldn’t stand hearing himself. That’s resilience. That’s love disguised as labor.”

Jack: smiling faintly “Maybe that’s what real artists do — they make peace with discomfort. They keep showing up, even when their own echo feels unbearable.”

Jeeny: softly “Because it’s not about hearing yourself anymore. It’s about someone else needing to.”

Jack: quietly “Yeah. He may not want to hear his voice at Christmas, but the rest of the world does. It’s the sound of belonging.”

Host:
The camera would pan slowly through the room — the glowing knobs, the spinning vinyl, the reflections of the Christmas lights trembling in the glass. Beyond the studio, the world seemed colder, quieter, but in here there was still a hum of life — soft, imperfect, human.

Jeeny leaned forward, her tone softer now, almost a whisper.

Jeeny: quietly “Maybe that’s why he said it — ‘nauseating.’ Not out of arrogance, but fatigue. When your voice becomes everyone’s comfort, you lose your own silence.”

Jack: nodding slowly “Yeah. The world asks for the song again and again, but it forgets to ask the singer how he’s doing.”

Jeeny: after a pause “That’s what art costs — the trade between the private self and the public memory.”

Jack: softly “And the public always wins.”

Host:
The record crackled, the last note stretching into the air before dissolving into static. The red RECORDING light glowed again, though neither of them had pressed it.

Jeeny looked at it, smiling faintly.

Jeeny: softly “You think it ever feels worth it?”

Jack: after a long silence “Maybe not for the artist. But for everyone who needed the song — yes. Always.”

Jeeny: smiling gently “Then maybe that’s the balance — creation is sacrifice, but the echo is grace.”

Jack: quietly “And even nausea is proof you’ve left something real behind.”

Host:
The snow outside thickened, the world turning white as the song ended. Inside, Jack reached over and stopped the record. The silence that followed was full — not empty, but fulfilled.

And in that stillness, Johnny Mathis’s words echoed softly, tenderly ironic — the confession of a man weary from his own melody:

“For me, hearing my voice is sometimes a little nauseating, especially at Christmas.”

Because fame,
like music,
is a gift that weighs.

It asks the artist
to live forever
in a single note,
a single season,
a single self.

Yet in that repetition —
in the endless return of December —
his voice still finds us.
It fills the quiet
between loneliness and light,
and reminds us
that beauty, even when tiresome,
is still love made audible.

And so, as the world hums his song again,
the snow falls softly —
and somewhere, in the echo,
the weary singer smiles,
knowing the nausea of hearing himself
is just another way of
being remembered.