I hasten to laugh at everything, for fear of being obliged to

Host:
The theater was empty, save for the echo of a thousand ghosts of laughter. Dust floated through the spotlights like tired applause. Red velvet seats stretched into darkness, a sea of silence once filled with voices, gasps, and joy. On the stage, two figures remained — Jack, sitting cross-legged in the center, his jacket thrown carelessly beside him, and Jeeny, perched on the edge of the stage, legs dangling, the dim glow from the house lights painting her face in gold and shadow.

Outside, the city pulsed faintly — horns, footsteps, the constant rhythm of life that goes on no matter who’s smiling or crying inside.

Jeeny: softly, almost as if reciting a secret “Pierre Beaumarchais once said, ‘I hasten to laugh at everything, for fear of being obliged to weep.’”

Jack: chuckling dryly “A survival tactic — the philosopher’s shield. If you laugh fast enough, the world can’t hit you where it hurts.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “Or maybe it’s just the artist’s curse. We turn tragedy into theater so we can stand to look at it.”

Jack: nodding slowly “Yeah. Comedy’s just grief wearing makeup.”

Jeeny: quietly “And the laughter? The applause we give ourselves for not breaking.”

Host: The spotlight flickered above them, casting long, quivering shadows across the stage floor — one warm, one trembling. The scent of old wood and stage dust lingered in the air, the perfume of performance and pretense.

Jack: stretching out, lying back on the boards “You know, Beaumarchais was right. If you stop laughing long enough, you realize the joke’s on us.”

Jeeny: tilting her head “You mean life?”

Jack: smirking “Exactly. All of it. We take ourselves so seriously, but we’re just improvising — scared actors in an unscripted play.”

Jeeny: softly “And laughing is the only line we get right.”

Jack: quietly “Or the only one that keeps us from crying through the scene.”

Host: The silence of the theater pressed close, not oppressive — intimate. The stage creaked softly under the weight of confession.

Jeeny: leaning forward “You know, it’s strange. The older I get, the more I understand that laughter isn’t denial. It’s resilience. It’s the soul refusing to rot.”

Jack: nodding, eyes closed “Yeah. Laughter’s rebellion. It’s saying, ‘You can’t break me, not yet.’”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “But sometimes, it’s also surrender — admitting we can’t control the pain, so we turn it into rhythm.”

Jack: quietly “Or rhyme.”

Jeeny: softly “Or a punchline.”

Host: The lights dimmed slightly, leaving only a single bulb burning center stage. The glow was fragile — the kind of light that exists not to banish darkness, but to remind you you’re still visible inside it.

Jack: sitting up now “You know, laughter’s a kind of philosophy. It’s what’s left when logic gives up.”

Jeeny: thoughtful “Yes. The final argument of the absurd.”

Jack: smiling “Exactly. Camus said we must imagine Sisyphus happy. Beaumarchais said we must imagine him laughing.”

Jeeny: quietly “Because otherwise, we’d weep every time the rock rolls down again.”

Jack: softly “Maybe that’s why the comedians are the saddest people. They know too well that if they stop laughing, they’ll never stop crying.”

Jeeny: gently “They don’t tell jokes. They tell pain in disguise.”

Host: The sound of faint rain began tapping on the theater roof, soft and rhythmic — nature’s applause, or maybe its tears. The air smelled faintly of wet metal and nostalgia.

Jeeny: after a pause “You know, Beaumarchais lived in a time when laughter was resistance — against kings, against censorship, against despair. He laughed because truth was forbidden.”

Jack: nodding “And because crying was useless.”

Jeeny: softly “Exactly. When the world silences you, humor becomes your sword.”

Jack: smiling faintly “A blade disguised as a grin.”

Jeeny: grinning “And sharper for it.”

Host: The curtain behind them swayed gently, like the ghost of a performer bowing for an invisible crowd. Somewhere in the dark, the echo of forgotten applause seemed to rise again — a memory of laughter refusing to die.

Jack: softly “You know, Jeeny, sometimes I think laughter and crying are the same emotion, just wearing different masks.”

Jeeny: quietly “Two languages for the same ache.”

Jack: nodding slowly “Yeah. The difference is — one drowns, the other floats.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “So laughter’s our way of staying above water.”

Jack: softly “Even when we’re sinking.”

Jeeny: “Especially then.”

Host: The rain outside grew louder, steady now, like a rhythm section accompanying their words. The smell of damp velvet and dust grew richer. The stage felt alive again — not with audience energy, but with something deeper: honesty.

Jack: after a long silence “You ever think maybe Beaumarchais wasn’t being clever, just scared?”

Jeeny: softly “Of course he was. All laughter is fear translated into music.”

Jack: nodding “Yeah. The song you hum to keep the monsters at bay.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “And maybe that’s why laughter feels holy — because it’s defiance. You laugh in the face of the absurd, and for a second, you win.”

Jack: quietly “Even if you lose everything else.”

Jeeny: softly “Exactly. The joke doesn’t have to fix the pain. It just has to survive it.”

Host: The theater lights flickered, dimmed, then steadied — a breath of life returning to the stillness. Jeeny slid down from the edge of the stage and sat beside Jack, both looking out into the empty seats — rows of ghosts waiting for a new performance.

Jeeny: softly “You know, I think laughter’s our last act of creation. When we laugh, we build light out of ruin.”

Jack: quietly “And when we weep, we remember we’re human.”

Jeeny: nodding “So the trick, I guess, is to do both — to laugh so we can cry, and cry so we can laugh again.”

Jack: smiling faintly “The art of survival.”

Jeeny: smiling back “The art of living.”

Host: The rain softened, the room fell still. Jack leaned back, eyes closed, and for the first time that night, laughter — small, sincere, weary — escaped him. Jeeny joined in, her voice mingling with his until it filled the empty space like music written for no one, but meant for everyone.

The theater listened, and for a moment, it seemed even the ghosts were smiling.

And as the lights faded to black, Pierre Beaumarchais’s words lingered — not as cynicism, but as truth carved in laughter:

That we laugh
not because the world is funny,
but because it’s too heavy not to.

That humor is not escape,
but alchemy — turning sorrow into sound.

And that every burst of laughter
is a small rebellion
against the gravity of grief —
proof that the human heart,
even when cracked,
still finds rhythm in ruin.

Fade out.