I know I'm not a self-indulgent idiot; I also know I'm not the

Host: The rain had just stopped, leaving the city slick and glistening beneath the amber glow of streetlights. The smell of wet asphalt hung in the air, heavy yet comforting, like the memory of a storm. In a dim café tucked between silent bookstores, Jack sat by the window, his reflection fragmented by droplets running down the glass. Jeeny arrived quietly, her coat damp, her eyes soft, carrying that mix of tenderness and fire that always made Jack uncomfortable.

The quote still lingered between them, fresh from the page of the book they had just read aloud:
"I know I'm not a self-indulgent idiot; I also know I'm not the second coming of Deepak Chopra. If I had believed either of those, or both, as some people do when they get famous, that's when the mental illness arrives."

Elizabeth Gilbert’s words hung in the air like cigarette smoke, visible, fragile, and yet impossible to ignore.

Jeeny: “It’s strange, isn’t it? How fame can make people lose their balance. One moment, they’re just ordinary souls, and the next, they’re mirrors for everyone else’s desire. They start to believe they’re either divine or worthless.”

Jack: (smirking) “Or maybe they just finally see what they always were — a brand. The world loves to build idols, Jeeny. But the moment they start to believe their own press, they’re done. That’s not mental illness, that’s delusion — and it’s self-inflicted.”

Host: The café light flickered, casting a tired gold across their faces. Jeeny’s hand rested near her cup, fingers trembling slightly as the steam rose like a ghost between them.

Jeeny: “You talk as if it’s all ego, Jack. But have you ever been seen by the world like that? Have you ever had your identity reshaped by millions of strangers? It’s not delusion — it’s a kind of violence. A psychological storm that most people can’t survive.”

Jack: “Oh, come on. Violence? No one’s holding a gun to their head. They chose the spotlight. Fame is a contract — you sign, you pay. You don’t get to weep later about the price.”

Jeeny: “But what if the price is your sanity? What if the mirror gets so bright, you can’t even see yourself anymore?”

Host: The rain began again, a soft tapping on the windowpane, like a heartbeat. Jack looked away, his jaw tightening, a shadow passing over his face — the look of a man who had once dreamed of being seen, then learned the cost of being visible.

Jeeny: “You know what I think Gilbert meant? That the moment we start believing in our own myth, whether of greatness or of failure, that’s when the mind splinters. We stop being human and start being a story told by others.”

Jack: “A story we tell ourselves, you mean. Ego’s a funny thing — it’ll convince you you’re a genius one day and a fraud the next. But both are fantasies. The truth is, most of us are just… mediocre.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the problem — that we’re so terrified of being ordinary. The world worships extraordinary people, so we all pretend we are. And when we can’t keep the act up, we call it madness.”

Jack: “You mean like Van Gogh?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. He was tortured not because he wanted fame, but because he wanted to be understood. There’s a difference. He didn’t think he was the second coming of anyone — he just wanted his pain to mean something.”

Jack: “And look how that ended. A severed ear and a gunshot. Society turned his suffering into art and called it romantic. Maybe that’s the real mental illness — not in him, but in all of us who keep consuming it.”

Host: The words fell like stones, heavy and echoing. Jeeny’s eyes narrowed, a flare of anger flickering behind her calmness.

Jeeny: “You talk like the world’s a machine, Jack. Like every emotion can be measured, every dream priced. But tell me — when was the last time you actually felt proud of something you did, without mocking yourself for it?”

Jack: (pausing) “Pride is just a mask for insecurity, Jeeny. People build it because they’re afraid of how small they really are.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s not fear — it’s humanity. To want to be seen, to be acknowledged — that’s not arrogance, it’s a kind of longing. Even Gilbert admitted it. She just refused to let it define her.”

Jack: “She also had the luxury of self-awareness, Jeeny. You think everyone who gets famous reads enough philosophy to keep their ego in check? No, they drown. They start to believe the crowd, or worse — they start to need it.”

Jeeny: “That’s because we teach people to worship the stage more than the soul. We tell them they’ll be loved if they just shine bright enough. And when the light burns them, we call them crazy.”

Host: The café had grown quiet, the hum of voices replaced by the low murmur of rain. A waiter passed, his shoes squeaking, glancing at them as if to measure the weight of their silence.

Jack: “So what’s your solution, Jeeny? Stop dreaming? Stop wanting to be seen?”

Jeeny: “No. Just stop mistaking the mirror for the self. The world’s reflection is a lie. It’ll love you one day, forget you the next. But if you anchor your worth in that, the madness is inevitable.”

Jack: “You sound like a poet preaching to machines.”

Jeeny: (smiling sadly) “Maybe. But even machines need to be reminded they were built by hands, not by gods.”

Host: A moment of stillness hung between them. The light from the street flickered across Jack’s face, revealing something fragile beneath his armor — a weariness, perhaps even a recognition.

Jack: “You know… I used to think if I ever got famous, I’d handle it. I’d stay sane. Grounded. But I saw what it did to a friend — a photographer who went viral. Overnight, everyone called her a genius. And within a year, she couldn’t leave her apartment. She said she didn’t know who she was anymore unless someone was looking at her.”

Jeeny: “That’s what I mean, Jack. The moment you start seeing yourself through the eyes of others, you stop existing in your own.”

Jack: “Yeah. Maybe Gilbert was right. The real madness isn’t in thinking you’re special — it’s in believing you’re not allowed to be ordinary.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Sanity lives somewhere between humility and self-respect. You can’t loathe yourself, and you can’t worship yourself either. You just have to be.”

Host: The rain had slowed, turning into a mist that clung to the windows like breath. Outside, the streetlights blurred, golden halos around the shadows of passing strangers.

Jack: “Maybe that’s the hardest part. Being just… someone. Not a symbol, not a story, not a brand.”

Jeeny: “But that’s also the freedom, Jack. The moment you stop performing, you start living.”

Jack: (softly) “You think that’s possible? In this world?”

Jeeny: “Maybe not for everyone. But for those who remember they’re human — yes.”

Host: The café clock ticked, a slow, measured rhythm like the heartbeat of the scene itself. Jack finally smiled, a rare, unguarded gesture that cracked his mask just enough to let the light in.

Jack: “You always make it sound so simple.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. Simplicity just terrifies complicated people.”

Host: The sound of rain faded, leaving behind a quiet so pure, it felt like forgiveness. Jack looked out the window, the city lights dancing in his grey eyes, while Jeeny sipped the last of her coffee, smiling faintly at his reflection.

And for a moment, neither of them spoke — the air between them thick with understanding, the kind that doesn’t need words.

Host: The camera would have pulled back then — the café, the window, the two souls suspended between noise and silence — as the city breathed, and the world went on spinning, indifferent yet beautiful.

Because in the end, they both knew — the only real insanity is forgetting that we are, after all, just human.