The best way of removing negativity is to laugh and be joyous.

Host: The morning sun had just begun to rise over the city skyline, its light spilling like molten gold across the rooftops and windows. The air was crisp, the kind that bites gently at your cheeks but makes you feel startlingly alive. A small park café stood at the edge of the square, where pigeons fluttered and people hurried past, clutching coffee cups like anchors to their day.

At a corner table, under a faint hum of music, sat Jack and Jeeny. Between them, two steaming mugs and the remnants of laughter still danced in the air.

Jack wore his usual grey coat, his posture relaxed but his eyes guarded. Jeeny, wrapped in a scarlet scarf, had that soft light about her — the kind of warmth that seemed to make even the cold air gentler.

Jeeny: “David Icke once said, ‘The best way of removing negativity is to laugh and be joyous.’ I think he’s right. We’ve built whole lives out of seriousness, out of fear, when maybe all we need is laughter.”

Jack: (half-smiling) “Icke, huh? The same man who believes half the world’s leaders are lizards? Not exactly my go-to for life advice.”

Jeeny: (smiling back) “Sometimes truth wears strange clothes, Jack. Even a madman can say something sane.”

Host: A breeze passed, carrying the scent of fresh bread from a nearby bakery. The light flickered through the leaves, painting Jeeny’s face with dappled gold. Jack watched her with that mixture of curiosity and quiet resistance — like a man standing before a door he wasn’t sure he wanted to open.

Jack: “You really believe laughter fixes anything? That joy alone can drive out the dark? Sounds naïve to me. Some things aren’t meant to be laughed at.”

Jeeny: “No, not everything can be laughed at. But maybe laughter isn’t about denial — it’s about defiance. When people in war zones sing, or when someone dying of cancer cracks a joke, it’s not ignorance. It’s rebellion. It’s saying, ‘You can’t own my spirit.’”

Jack: “Rebellion, huh? Sounds poetic. But tell that to someone who just lost everything. Try laughing in front of a grave and see how it feels.”

Host: His voice had a rough edge to it now. The steam from his coffee rose, coiling like smoke between them — a quiet wall of unspoken memories.

Jeeny: “I have, Jack. After my father’s funeral. My mother told a story — about how he once tried to fix the car and set the garage on fire. We laughed until we cried. It wasn’t disrespect. It was remembering the life, not the loss.”

Jack: (quietly) “You laugh to forget. That’s all.”

Jeeny: “No. We laugh to remember we’re still here.”

Host: The pause stretched. A child’s laughter floated across the park, light and piercing, the way innocence sometimes cuts through grief like sunlight through fog. Jack’s eyes softened, though his expression didn’t change.

Jack: “You talk about joy like it’s a weapon. But it’s fragile, Jeeny. It fades too fast. One bad day and the whole thing collapses.”

Jeeny: “That’s the beauty of it. You have to choose it every single day. It’s not something you keep — it’s something you keep creating. Like breathing.”

Jack: “You make it sound so easy.”

Jeeny: “It’s not. But neither is despair, Jack. Despair takes effort too — we just forget we’re the ones feeding it.”

Host: The city noise grew louder — horns, footsteps, chatter — a rising orchestra of ordinary life. The sun climbed higher, spilling warmth over the table, and for a moment, the world looked too bright to argue.

Jack: “You know what I think? Laughter is a distraction. A mask we put on so we don’t have to deal with what’s real. People use joy like anesthetic.”

Jeeny: “Sometimes anesthetic saves lives.”

Jack: “But it also dulls the truth.”

Jeeny: “Only if you use it to hide. But when it’s honest — when it comes from the part of you that refuses to surrender — laughter becomes truth itself.”

Host: Jack leaned forward, his hands clasped, his eyes searching hers like someone testing the strength of a bridge before crossing it.

Jack: “So you’re saying I should just laugh through everything? Through injustice, corruption, heartbreak? Just crack a joke and pretend the world’s fine?”

Jeeny: “No. I’m saying laughter doesn’t deny the storm — it invites light into it. Think of Mandela. He was imprisoned twenty-seven years and came out smiling. That smile wasn’t weakness; it was victory. He didn’t laugh because things were fine — he laughed because he refused to let them define him.”

Host: A pigeon landed near their table, pecking at a crumb before flying off again. Its wings flashed white against the blue sky, a fleeting image of motion and freedom.

Jack: “Mandela was rare. Most people break. I’ve seen people lose their jobs, their families — and no amount of laughter could bring them back.”

Jeeny: “Maybe not. But it could bring them back to themselves. You can’t control loss, but you can control whether it poisons you.”

Jack: “You sound like a therapist with a punchline.”

Jeeny: (grinning) “Maybe humor is therapy. The kind the soul understands before the mind does.”

Host: Jack laughed, unexpectedly — a rough, genuine sound that seemed to surprise even him. Jeeny smiled, her eyes bright, as if she’d just witnessed the rarest miracle: Jack forgetting his armor.

Jack: “You win this one, Jeeny. For a second there, I actually forgot how miserable I’m supposed to be.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s what joy does — it doesn’t erase pain, it just gives it somewhere to go.”

Host: The light had turned warmer now, spilling into the café and filling every corner with quiet gold. The barista hummed behind the counter, a soft melody rising and falling like a memory.

Jack: “You know, there’s something almost irresponsible about what you’re saying. Laughing while the world burns.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s when we need laughter the most. When everything’s burning. Otherwise, we just become the ashes.”

Jack: “You think laughter is rebellion against despair.”

Jeeny: “It is. Joy is an act of resistance. Always has been.”

Host: The wind picked up, carrying the sound of church bells somewhere distant. It was the kind of sound that made you feel both small and infinite.

Jack: “So, laugh through the darkness, huh?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Not because the darkness isn’t real, but because it doesn’t get the final word.”

Jack: “You really believe that?”

Jeeny: “I live by it. Every time I laugh, I’m choosing to be alive.”

Host: Jack looked down at his hands, then at the street, where a child in a bright yellow jacket was trying to chase a balloon that kept slipping from his grip. He watched the balloon float upward, past the trees, past the skyline, until it vanished into the light.

Jack: “You know… maybe laughter doesn’t remove negativity. Maybe it just reminds us we’re more than it.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s not the absence of shadow — it’s the presence of sun.”

Host: The moment settled softly between them, like the last note of a song that didn’t need an ending. The city moved on — cars passed, birds flew, people laughed — and the world, for all its weight, seemed just a little lighter.

Jack: “Alright then. Tell me something funny.”

Jeeny: (laughs) “You just did.”

Host: And there it was again — that sound, pure and alive, rising above the noise of everything broken. Laughter, fragile yet unyielding, weaving light through the cracks of a weary world.

As the camera pulls back, the two of them remain at their table, their voices blending with the morning air, and for one timeless second, the city itself seems to breathe easier, as if joy — even fleeting — was enough to keep the darkness at bay.