I play a musical instrument a little, but only for my own

Host: The night had a tender hush, the kind that hums after rain, when the air is soft and the world feels newly washed. Inside a dim attic apartment, scattered records lay like fallen leaves — Sinatra, Miles Davis, Chopin — relics of other people’s genius. A single lamp cast golden light across the room, catching in the dust that floated lazily through the stillness.

Jack sat by the window, a worn guitar resting on his knee. He wasn’t playing yet — just staring out at the glowing city below, the lights flickering like thoughts he couldn’t quite hold.

Jeeny leaned in the doorway, her arms crossed, a faint smile playing on her lips.

Jeeny: “You always look like you’re about to play and then decide against it.”

Jack: “I’m waiting for the world to quiet down.”

Jeeny: “It’s past midnight, Jack. The world’s asleep. It’s just you left awake.”

Host: Jack’s fingers brushed the strings — a soft, uncertain sound — the kind of tone that exists somewhere between hesitation and memory.

Jack: “Fred Allen once said, ‘I play a musical instrument a little, but only for my own amazement.’ I think that’s what this is for me. I don’t play to impress anyone. I play to remember I’m still here.”

Jeeny: “Still here? You make it sound like survival.”

Jack: “Maybe it is.”

Host: The lamplight glimmered on the steel of the strings. Each one caught the light like a wire to another world.

Jeeny: “You used to perform, remember? On that tiny stage near the subway. You had a crowd every Friday.”

Jack: “Yeah. Until it stopped being music and started being expectation. The applause became noise. The spotlight — a cage. I realized I didn’t love the stage. I loved the sound before anyone heard it.”

Jeeny: “So now you play only for yourself?”

Jack: “Only for my own amazement.”

Host: He smiled faintly as he said it, the words rolling off his tongue with quiet irony and deep truth.

Jeeny: “That sounds lonely.”

Jack: “No. It’s honest. You ever notice how everything changes once you try to be good at it? Once someone starts listening, you stop playing. You start performing.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t sharing what makes art alive?”

Jack: “Not always. Sometimes sharing kills it. It’s like trying to trap a firefly — the moment you catch it, the light dies.”

Host: The wind shifted, carrying the faint sound of a saxophone from a street below — distant, imperfect, alive. Jack looked toward the open window, and for a moment, both listened.

Jeeny: “That guy down there — he’s playing for coins.”

Jack: “And for himself. You can hear it. That’s the difference. He’s amazed he’s still breathing through that horn. That’s what amazement sounds like.”

Jeeny: “You sound almost jealous.”

Jack: “Not jealous. Envious, maybe. There’s purity in doing something for no one but yourself. When you play just to feel something — not to prove it.”

Host: He plucked a string again, this time letting the note linger. It hung in the air, trembling like a fragile secret.

Jeeny: “But doesn’t it get… small? That private amazement? Like you’re living in your own echo chamber?”

Jack: “Maybe. But it’s mine. The world wants everything to be shareable — every sound, every thought. I just want something that belongs to silence again.”

Host: Jeeny walked over, sitting opposite him on the floor, cross-legged. The lamplight caught her eyes, deep brown and reflective, full of warmth and a faint ache.

Jeeny: “When I paint, I feel that sometimes. Like I’m talking to myself, and the canvas is just the echo. But then someone sees it — and suddenly, it’s theirs too. That’s both beautiful and terrifying.”

Jack: “Exactly. You give your amazement away, and it stops being amazement. It becomes product.”

Jeeny: “But what’s wrong with others being amazed too?”

Jack: “Because their amazement isn’t yours. It changes the song.”

Host: He looked down at the guitar, his thumb sliding across the fretboard. The sound that came out was uneven — broken, raw — but it had a heartbeat.

Jack: “When I was twelve, I found this guitar in my uncle’s attic. It had only four strings. I didn’t know any chords, so I made them up. It was terrible. And it was perfect. I didn’t know enough to judge myself. That’s what amazement feels like — wonder before knowledge ruins it.”

Jeeny: “So ignorance is the key to happiness?”

Jack: “Not ignorance. Innocence. The ability to be amazed by your own imperfection.”

Host: The rain began again — soft, rhythmic, like applause from the sky. The two sat in silence, the music now blending with the storm, notes dissolving into raindrops.

Jeeny: “Do you ever miss the crowd?”

Jack: “Sometimes. But not their eyes. Just the way the stage lights made me forget myself for a moment.”

Jeeny: “Funny. You say you play for yourself, but you still need the forgetting.”

Jack: “Maybe amazement is just that — forgetting who’s watching, even when no one is.”

Host: Jeeny reached out and gently took the guitar from him. Her hands, smaller but steady, found a chord. It buzzed a little, slightly out of tune. She laughed.

Jeeny: “You’re right. It’s awful. But it’s… honest.”

Jack: “Now you get it.”

Jeeny: “I think I always did. I just never had the courage to stop seeking approval.”

Jack: “Approval’s the death of wonder.”

Host: The lamp flickered. Outside, thunder murmured — low, distant. The sound wrapped the room in something holy and quiet.

Jeeny: “You know, Jack, maybe amazement isn’t about doing something extraordinary. Maybe it’s about still being surprised you can do anything at all.”

Jack: “That’s the most human thing I’ve heard all night.”

Jeeny: “Play something then. Not for me. For you.”

Host: He smiled — a slow, reluctant kind of smile — and began to play. A soft melody filled the room, hesitant but alive, like a memory learning to walk again. The notes weren’t perfect; some bent, some fell short. But the space between them was honest.

Jeeny closed her eyes, listening.

Jeeny: “It’s beautiful.”

Jack: “No. It’s real.”

Host: The music rose and fell like breathing — the kind of sound that exists only for the moment it’s made, never meant to be remembered, only felt. The lamplight dimmed further until only the faint glow from the window remained, brushing their faces in silver.

Jack stopped playing, the final note fading into silence.

Jeeny: “What are you thinking?”

Jack: “That amazement is quieter than applause.”

Host: The camera drifted toward the window. Outside, the rain had stopped. The city shimmered beneath a clearing sky, reflections rippling across the pavement like slow-moving constellations.

Inside, Jack set the guitar down and leaned back, exhaling. Jeeny smiled softly, as if she understood something wordless between them — the strange, sacred joy of creating not to be heard, but to feel alive.

Host: And as the scene faded, only the faint echo of that imperfect song remained —
a small, private miracle in a world too loud to notice.

For in that attic, on that quiet night, two souls rediscovered what Fred Allen had known all along — that sometimes, the truest art is the kind that leaves no audience, only amazement.