I think we all have a lot of darkness in our bellies. As an

Host: The theater was empty now. Rows of velvet seats stretched into the dim, dust-speckled dark, while a single stage light hung above like a suspended moon. The air carried the scent of sweat, wood, and the faint trace of makeup — the ghosts of performances past.

Jack sat on the edge of the stage, still in costume — his shirt half-open, makeup smeared down his jaw. His hands trembled slightly, not from exhaustion, but from whatever emotion was still unspent. Jeeny sat cross-legged in the front row, chin resting on her hand, watching him like one might watch a campfire — mesmerized by both the warmth and the danger.

Host: Outside, the rain drummed against the theater’s roof — steady, hypnotic — as if the world were applauding the confession waiting to be made.

Jeeny: softly “Kevin Bacon once said, ‘I think we all have a lot of darkness in our bellies. As an actor, the challenge of tapping into that — reaching down into that sadness or anger — is very therapeutic.’”
She leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “That’s why you do it, isn’t it?”

Jack: still staring at the floorboards “Therapeutic, sure. But it’s not always clean therapy. Sometimes it feels more like surgery without anesthesia.”

Jeeny: “Still — you keep doing it.”

Jack: bitterly “Because I don’t know how not to. You think I act because I love pretending? No. I act because it’s the only time I stop pretending.”

Host: The light flickered above them, a slow pulse in the dust-filled air. Jeeny’s gaze softened. She had seen Jack in this state before — raw, post-performance, half in character, half himself.

Jeeny: “You ever worry about how much you give away up there?”

Jack: “All the time. But maybe that’s the point. Every role’s a confession dressed as fiction. You bury yourself in someone else’s pain so you can survive your own.”

Jeeny: “You make it sound noble.”

Jack: “It’s not. It’s selfish. Acting lets me bleed where no one gets hurt — except me.”

Host: He stood and began to pace the stage — slow steps that echoed through the cavernous space. The boards creaked beneath him, as though the floor itself remembered every monologue, every breakdown, every whispered truth spoken into its grain.

Jeeny: “Bacon called it darkness. What do you call it?”

Jack: pausing, thinking “Weight. It’s like carrying a shadow inside you. Some people hide from theirs. Actors — we dance with them.”

Jeeny: “And when the performance ends?”

Jack: “The shadow doesn’t. It just clings quieter.”

Jeeny: “So you let the world applaud your pain.”

Jack: turning sharply “No. They don’t applaud the pain. They applaud the illusion of control. The idea that I can take the chaos in here —” he tapped his chest “— and make it look beautiful out there.”

Host: His voice cracked slightly, and the silence that followed was almost reverent. The rain outside softened, its rhythm gentler now, like a metronome marking his confession.

Jeeny: “Do you think everyone has that? Darkness?”

Jack: “Of course. Most people just learn to bury it better. Smile through it. Work through it. Pray through it. But it’s there — that quiet ache, that resentment, that sadness that creeps in when the world goes still.”

Jeeny: quietly “And you? You dive straight into it.”

Jack: half-smiling “Some of us are born divers.”

Jeeny: “You make it sound heroic.”

Jack: “It’s not heroic. It’s necessary. The alternative is numbness — and I’ve seen what numbness does to people.”

Jeeny: “So you choose pain?”

Jack: “No. I choose truth. Even when it hurts.”

Host: The stage light hummed, casting long shadows across the empty theater. Jeeny rose and walked toward him, her steps slow, deliberate.

Jeeny: “But isn’t there a danger in living too close to the dark? What if one day you reach too deep and don’t come back?”

Jack: “That’s the risk. Every actor knows it. Every artist does. You go mining in the depths — sadness, rage, regret — and you pray that what you bring back is art, not damage.”

Jeeny: “And if it’s both?”

Jack: meeting her eyes “Then you call it truth.”

Host: For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The rain had stopped entirely now, leaving behind a stillness so pure it felt alive. The old velvet curtains swayed slightly, as if they, too, were listening.

Jeeny: “You know, I think Bacon was right about it being therapeutic. But therapy means healing. Do you think this heals you?”

Jack: sitting back on the edge of the stage “Sometimes. Other times it just keeps me from breaking completely.”

Jeeny: “And is that enough?”

Jack: “For now.”

Host: He rubbed his palms together, staring at them like they belonged to someone else — someone who had held too many emotions that weren’t his.

Jeeny: “You ever wish you could act without bleeding?”

Jack: “That would make me a liar.”

Jeeny: gently “And you’d rather be wounded than false.”

Jack: “Always.”

Host: A single lightbulb buzzed faintly overhead. Jeeny sat beside him now, their reflections small and fractured in the dark sheen of the stage floor.

Jeeny: “You know, everyone talks about light in art. But no one warns you how heavy it is — carrying all the dark that makes it possible.”

Jack: nodding slowly “That’s the paradox, isn’t it? People crave authenticity, but they never want to see where it comes from. The pain behind the applause.”

Jeeny: “And yet, they need it.”

Jack: “We all do. That’s why stories exist. To give shape to our shadows.”

Jeeny: “You think that’s why you act?”

Jack: after a pause “No. I think that’s why I breathe. Acting’s just how I make sense of it.”

Host: The curtains swayed, whispering softly as the air shifted. The theater felt almost sacred now — a cathedral built for vulnerability.

Jeeny: “You ever think about what it costs you?”

Jack: “Every day. But what’s the alternative? Living safely, untouched, unscarred? That’s not living. That’s embalming.”

Jeeny: “So you bleed on stage so others don’t have to.”

Jack: “Maybe. Or maybe I bleed because I don’t know how else to feel clean.”

Host: The spotlight flickered, dimmed, and finally faded, leaving only the faint light of the exit signs — a haunting red glow that made their faces look carved from honesty.

Jeeny: softly “You know, I think that’s what Bacon meant — not that darkness is good, but that facing it is necessary.”

Jack: “Yeah. You can’t outrun what’s inside you. You can only transform it — or it eats you.”

Jeeny: “So what now?”

Jack: “Now? I rest. Then I do it all over again.”

Host: The rain began again — gentle, steady, rhythmic. Jeeny stood and offered her hand. Jack took it, his fingers trembling slightly. Together, they walked down the aisle toward the exit, their footsteps echoing like the fading lines of a play that would never truly end.

Outside, the world was washed clean, though the scent of earth and electricity lingered in the air. Jack stopped for a moment, staring into the distance.

Jack: quietly “Maybe that’s what art really is — turning your darkness into something that helps someone else face theirs.”

Jeeny: nodding “Exactly. It’s not therapy. It’s communion.”

Host: And as they stepped into the rain, their shadows stretched long beneath the streetlights — two souls who understood that light and darkness were never enemies, only partners in the same dance.

And in that quiet moment, Kevin Bacon’s truth resonated like an echo beneath the storm:
that to reach deep into the belly of our own darkness
isn’t to destroy ourselves —
but to touch the part of us that still feels, still aches, still creates.

Because in the end, it’s not the darkness that defines us —
but the courage to look at it,
and call it art.