I must learn to love the fool in me - the one who feels too much

Host: The night was thick with cigarette smoke and memories. The bar was nearly empty, save for the faint sound of a jazz record spinning in the corner — its melody soft, fragile, and slightly out of tune. The light from a single lamp flickered over the mahogany counter, casting long shadows that seemed to breathe with the rhythm of regret.

Jack sat hunched over a glass of whiskey, his coat damp from the rain outside. His grey eyes were lost in the reflection of the amber liquid — a mirror for things he didn’t say. Jeeny sat across from him, her hair loose, her face half-hidden behind the smoke rising from her untouched drink. The air between them pulsed with unsaid truths.

Host: The world outside was silent, but inside — there was only the sound of two people trying to understand themselves.

Jeeny: “You know, Theodore Rubin once said — ‘I must learn to love the fool in me — the one who feels too much, talks too much, takes too many chances, wins sometimes and loses often…’”

Jack: “Ah, yes. That one. The perfect anthem for people who keep making the same damn mistakes.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe it’s the anthem for those who are brave enough to keep trying.”

Host: Jack gave a small, humorless laugh, the kind that cuts more than it heals. The ice in his glass clinked softly, echoing the tremor in his voice.

Jack: “Brave? You call it brave? I call it stupid. Loving the fool in you is just another way of saying you’ve given up on changing. We spend half our lives trying to be smarter, stronger, more disciplined — and you’re telling me we should embrace the chaos?”

Jeeny: “Not the chaos — the humanity. The fool in us is the part that still feels, still risks, still believes even after being hurt. Without that fool, Jack, you’d just be a machine wearing a face.”

Host: The rain outside intensified, drumming against the windows like the heartbeat of the night itself. Jack looked up, his eyes glinting in the low light.

Jack: “Feeling too much is how people get crushed, Jeeny. Look at me. Look at anyone who’s ever cared too deeply — they always end up bleeding for it. The fool you romanticize is the one who forgets to protect himself.”

Jeeny: “Maybe protection is overrated. We’re so obsessed with avoiding pain that we stop living. You think you’re safe behind all that control, but all I see is a man afraid to feel anything real.”

Host: The air cracked between them — not with anger, but with a deep, aching truth. Jack looked away first. The neon sign outside painted his face red, like wounds reopened under light.

Jack: “Real feelings get you hurt. That’s not poetry, that’s fact. Ask anyone who’s ever loved the wrong person, trusted the wrong friend. Ask me.”

Jeeny: “Then tell me — did you stop feeling afterward? Did you stop being human?”

Jack: “I tried.”

Host: His voice broke slightly on that last word. The record skipped, repeating a single note like a heartbeat refusing to die.

Jeeny: “You can’t amputate emotion, Jack. You can drown it in whiskey, hide it behind sarcasm, bury it under logic — but it crawls back. Every time. Maybe that’s what Rubin meant. That we’re not supposed to kill the fool in us. We’re supposed to learn to live with it.”

Jack: “You make it sound so noble. But the fool ruins lives, Jeeny. He ruins relationships, jobs, dreams — all in the name of ‘feeling too much.’ You call it love; I call it self-destruction.”

Jeeny: “And yet that same fool gives us art, laughter, connection — the very things that make life worth living. Van Gogh cut off his ear for love. Wilde went to prison for truth. They lost everything, yes. But would the world be richer if they had played it safe?”

Host: The music swelled softly, a lonely trumpet calling out across the room. Jack’s hands tightened around his glass, his knuckles white against the amber.

Jack: “So what, we glorify pain now? Romanticize failure?”

Jeeny: “No. We honor the courage to feel, even when it breaks us. Because that’s the only way to stay alive in a world that tries to make us numb.”

Host: A pause lingered — a delicate, trembling silence that carried more weight than any words. Jack exhaled slowly, the smoke curling like ghosts above their heads.

Jack: “You talk like you’ve made peace with your own mistakes.”

Jeeny: “Not peace. Acceptance. I’ve hurt people, Jack. Said things I can’t take back. Broken promises I meant to keep. But hating the fool in me never made me better — it just made me colder. And coldness isn’t growth. It’s grief in disguise.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice softened, her eyes distant, reflecting the dim light of the bar. Jack watched her, something shifting behind his cynical mask — a flicker of recognition, maybe regret.

Jack: “You think self-forgiveness is that easy?”

Jeeny: “No. It’s the hardest thing you’ll ever do. Because it means forgiving the version of yourself that embarrassed you, failed you, humiliated you. It means looking in the mirror and saying — ‘You’re still worthy, even when you’re ridiculous.’”

Jack: “And what if I can’t?”

Jeeny: “Then you keep trying until you can. That’s what it means to learn to love the fool.”

Host: The light from the lamp swayed as if caught by some unseen draft, casting shadows that danced across their faces. The storm had softened to a whisper now, a quiet confession from the world outside.

Jack: “You really believe that?”

Jeeny: “I do. Because the fool in us — he’s the one who laughs without reason, who loves without guarantee, who dares to dream even when the world calls it naïve. Without him, we’d stop growing. Without him, we’d stop forgiving others, too.”

Jack: “You make the fool sound like a saint.”

Jeeny: “No. He’s not a saint. He’s a mirror. And he reminds us that being human is messy — painfully, beautifully messy.”

Host: Jack leaned back, staring at the ceiling, his eyes tracing the cracks like roads leading somewhere uncertain. A faint smile — the first in hours — brushed his face.

Jack: “You know… I used to write poetry. Years ago. It was terrible. Sentimental, clumsy. I stopped when someone told me I wasn’t any good.”

Jeeny: “Why?”

Jack: “Because I believed them.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it’s time to let the fool write again.”

Host: Jack’s eyes met hers — something unguarded there, something almost childlike. The record reached its end, the soft scratch of silence filling the space.

Jack: “You think it’s not too late?”

Jeeny: “For the fool? Never. He’s the part of you that refuses to die, no matter how much you try to silence him.”

Host: Outside, the rain had stopped. The streets glistened under the streetlights, reflections shimmering like broken stars. The bar was quiet now — just two people, two drinks, and a fragile truth hanging between them.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe the fool’s not my enemy after all. Maybe he’s the only honest part left.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Love him — because he’s the one who keeps you human.”

Host: The camera would pull back now — through the window, through the rain-streaked glass, revealing Jack and Jeeny sitting in a small pool of light, the world around them swallowed by night.

Host: And as the last note of jazz faded into the dark, a quiet peace settled — not perfect, not tidy, but real.

Host: For in that dim bar, they both understood: to love life, you must also love the fool who dares to live it.