We must overcome the notion that we must be regular... it robs

Host: The night was sharp and clear, the kind of cold air that carried every sound like truth. A single streetlight flickered above a theater alley, its light pooling over cracked pavement and discarded flyers. From within the old rehearsal hall, faint music echoed—a piano playing scales that seemed to never quite find their key.

Jack leaned against a brick wall, collar turned up, a cigarette glowing between his fingers. His eyes, grey and weary, followed the faint smoke trail curling toward the ceiling. Across from him, Jeeny sat on a wooden bench, her hair tied loosely, scripts scattered around her like fallen leaves.

The night carried that peculiar stillness found only in places where dreams have failed but hope still lingers.

Jack: “You know what’s funny, Jeeny? Every time I hear someone talk about being ‘extraordinary,’ I think of all the people who tried—and broke themselves doing it. Maybe being regular isn’t such a curse.”

Jeeny: “You think mediocrity is safety, Jack. But Uta Hagen didn’t. She believed that the moment you choose to be regular, you start dying quietly.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice was soft, but it cut through the quiet air with precision. The piano in the background stopped. For a moment, only the hum of the streetlight filled the space.

Jack: “Dying quietly. That’s dramatic, even for her. Maybe she could afford to say that—she was already extraordinary. But for the rest of us? Regular is what keeps the lights on.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Regular is what keeps you afraid. It’s what convinces you to silence the parts of yourself that could have been brilliant.”

Host: The wind slipped through the cracked door, carrying with it the faint scent of dust, paint, and forgotten applause.

Jack: “You make it sound noble, chasing extraordinary. But you’ve seen the ones who try. Actors sleeping on couches, painters who can’t sell a single piece. ‘Be extraordinary’ sounds like a cruel joke to them.”

Jeeny: “But they lived honestly, Jack. They dared to be seen. That’s worth more than comfort. Mediocrity isn’t living—it’s maintenance.”

Host: Jack flicked his cigarette, watching the ashes fall like tiny meteors. His eyes glinted, half in amusement, half in weariness.

Jack: “You know who else dared to be seen? Van Gogh. And he died poor, mad, and alone. The world worships him now—but he never got to enjoy it. What good is extraordinary if it kills you before it pays you?”

Jeeny: “Van Gogh painted because he had to, not because he wanted fame. That’s the difference. Being extraordinary isn’t about being known—it’s about refusing to settle for imitation when your soul is built for creation.”

Host: The light above them flickered, momentarily casting shadows across Jeeny’s face, illuminating the fierce spark in her eyes.

Jack: “You talk like it’s that simple. But what if people don’t have that fire? What if they just want peace?”

Jeeny: “Then peace is their extraordinary. Being extraordinary doesn’t mean being loud, Jack. It means being true. It’s the difference between living deliberately and existing passively.”

Host: Silence stretched between them. The piano began again, this time softer, almost hesitant, as if unsure of its own song.

Jack: “You know… I used to think I’d be extraordinary once. I studied hard, worked harder, played the part. But somewhere along the way, I started envying the regular ones. They sleep. They smile. They don’t ache for more every second.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that ache is your gift, Jack. Hagen said that acting—life itself—demands the courage to be ugly, to fail, to fall apart. That’s where truth hides. Mediocrity avoids that. It wants applause without risk.”

Host: The door creaked, and a gust of cold air rushed through, stirring papers on the floor. One page fluttered to Jack’s feet—a monologue, marked with red ink, the words “Find the moment of truth” underlined twice.

Jack: “Find the moment of truth,” he murmured. “You think she meant that literally?”

Jeeny: “Always. Hagen didn’t care for perfection; she cared for honesty. You can’t be extraordinary unless you’re willing to be painfully honest.”

Host: The streetlight buzzed, casting a warm amber glow on their faces, their breath visible in the cold night air.

Jack: “Honesty’s a luxury, Jeeny. People don’t want truth; they want comfort. They want the show to look polished, not raw.”

Jeeny: “Then they don’t deserve art. Or love. Or greatness. Because all three demand you risk being seen as you are—not as you wish to appear.”

Host: Jack looked down, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. The rain began, slow and thin, tapping against the metal awning like a heartbeat.

Jack: “You ever get tired of always fighting the world, Jeeny?”

Jeeny: “No. I get tired of watching the world fight itself into silence.”

Host: Her words fell like raindrops—soft but relentless. The streetlight wavered again, as though struggling between brightness and darkness.

Jack: “So, what—you think everyone should chase being extraordinary? What happens when everyone thinks they’re special? Chaos?”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Balance. Because when everyone strives for truth instead of normalcy, the world becomes real again. Mediocrity is what causes the chaos—because it pretends peace while breeding quiet despair.”

Host: The sound of rain deepened, filling the pause between their words. Somewhere in the distance, a sirene wailed, and the city’s hum seemed to slow.

Jack: “You make it sound so easy—like breaking free from mediocrity is a choice anyone can make.”

Jeeny: “It is. But it’s also the hardest one. It means refusing to be liked for being safe. It means being rejected, misunderstood, even mocked. But that’s the cost of authenticity.”

Host: Jack’s expression softened, a mix of resignation and revelation. The rain reflected in his eyes, tiny fragments of gold and shadow.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe regular isn’t peace—it’s paralysis.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Extraordinary isn’t a destination—it’s a refusal. A refusal to shrink.”

Host: The piano in the background came to a stop. The silence that followed was total, sacred.

Jack: “You know what scares me, Jeeny? That I’ve already become what I used to despise.”

Jeeny: “Then undo it. One honest act at a time. Stop pretending to be regular when you were never meant to be.”

Host: Jeeny rose, stepping closer to Jack, her eyes steady, her voice low.

Jeeny: “We were never meant to fit in, Jack. We were meant to burn differently.”

Host: The rain softened, the streetlight steadied, and for a brief moment, the city seemed to hold its breath. Jack stared at Jeeny, something awakening in the hollow of his chest—not a roar, but a flicker, fragile yet defiant.

Jack: “Maybe… maybe extraordinary doesn’t mean being better. Maybe it just means being fully alive.”

Jeeny: “Yes. That’s all Hagen ever meant. To be alive is to act, and to act is to risk. Regularity kills both.”

Host: The rain stopped. The sky, now bruised with dawn, opened just enough for a sliver of light to touch their faces.

Jack dropped his cigarette, watching it sizzle out on the wet ground.

Jack: “You think there’s still time?”

Jeeny: “There’s always time—until you decide there isn’t.”

Host: The piano keys, forgotten, gave one last echoing note, like a sigh from an unseen soul. Jack and Jeeny stood in the dim glow, two silhouettes against the awakening sky, their breath mingling with the cold, the light, the unspoken understanding that extraordinary isn’t something you chase—it’s something you choose.

And as they walked away, side by side, the first sunlight broke across the wet cobblestones, scattering reflections of gold like applause meant only for them—two souls who dared, once again, to be un-regular.