Youth is an amazing thing: I think back on when we did The Lost

Host: The film set was long deserted now. Dust floated lazily through the shafts of light that fell across a forgotten soundstage — walls draped in old velvet backdrops, the faint outline of what used to be a gothic throne still visible under a canvas sheet. Outside, the night hummed with crickets and the distant buzz of the city. Inside, everything smelled faintly of dust, wood, and the ghost of youth.

Jack sat on a metal case near the center of the room, holding a half-empty bottle and staring at the flickering light of a bare bulb overhead. Jeeny leaned against a pillar, her arms folded, her eyes bright — watching him with the soft attentiveness of someone who’s learned to listen not just to words, but to pauses.

Jeeny: “Kiefer Sutherland once said, ‘Youth is an amazing thing: I think back on when we did The Lost Boys, and I didn’t think I could do anything wrong.’”

Host: Jack laughed quietly — not mockingly, but with a kind of tender ache.
Jack: “That’s the arrogance of youth, isn’t it? The beautiful, unstoppable kind — when the world still feels like a mirror reflecting only your best angles.”

Jeeny: “It’s not arrogance. It’s innocence wearing confidence as a disguise.”

Jack: “You’re romanticizing it.”

Jeeny: “And you’re forgetting it.”

Host: The light flickered again, dust particles catching fire in its glow like sparks of memory.

Jack: “Youth feels infinite when you’re in it. Every failure feels like rehearsal. Every mistake feels like art.”

Jeeny: “Because it’s the only time in life when you believe consequences are negotiable.”

Jack: “Yeah. You think time bends for you — and for a while, it does.”

Jeeny: “Until it doesn’t.”

Host: The silence stretched between them — thick, unspoken, honest. Outside, thunder rolled faintly in the distance, like applause for a performance that had ended decades ago.

Jeeny: “It’s funny how he calls it ‘amazing.’ You can hear the wistfulness in that word. It’s not pride. It’s nostalgia disguised as wonder.”

Jack: “Yeah. Like he’s talking about someone else entirely — a kid who thought immortality came free with ambition.”

Jeeny: “And who probably didn’t realize how fragile both really were.”

Jack: “No one ever does. Youth is the only currency you spend without realizing how little you have.”

Jeeny: “But it’s also the only time you’re rich enough to be reckless.”

Jack: “True. When you still mistake courage for immortality.”

Host: Jeeny walked slowly across the soundstage, her boots echoing on the wood floor. She ran her fingers along one of the set walls — fake brick, chipped paint — and smiled.
Jeeny: “You think that’s why we romanticize it so much? Because we’re not actually missing the time — we’re missing the ignorance?”

Jack: “Exactly. Ignorance was the luxury. You didn’t know how fragile everything was. You didn’t know how loud silence could get when the applause stops.”

Jeeny: “And you didn’t yet understand that feeling alive and being right aren’t the same thing.”

Jack: “That’s the heart of it. Youth is believing in your own myth.”

Jeeny: “And adulthood is learning to survive the truth.”

Host: The rain began, tapping against the metal roof — steady, rhythmic, like an old film reel running somewhere unseen.

Jeeny: “It’s interesting, though — that he ties youth to The Lost Boys. A film about eternal youth, about vampires who never grow old.”

Jack: “Yeah. It’s ironic. He played a character who couldn’t die, at an age when he thought he couldn’t fail.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the tragedy of youth — it confuses immortality with momentum.”

Jack: “You think you’re flying when really, you’re just falling slow enough to enjoy it.”

Jeeny: “And when you hit the ground, you call it wisdom.”

Host: Jack smirked, swirling the drink in his hand.
Jack: “You know, back then, they must’ve felt invincible. The eighties — youth was cinematic then. Cigarettes, leather jackets, neon nights. Everything dangerous felt divine.”

Jeeny: “And everything divine burned out before thirty.”

Jack: “Yeah. But the flame — that short, impossible flame — it made people believe in something.”

Jeeny: “Even if it was just themselves.”

Host: The rain outside grew heavier now, filling the silence between their voices. The bulb above flickered, its glow deepening, as though time itself was listening in.

Jeeny: “You ever miss that feeling? The ‘I can’t do anything wrong’ part?”

Jack: “Sometimes. But it’s like missing a dream. You can’t live inside it again once you’ve woken up.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why people chase fame, or danger, or love — to feel it again, even for a second.”

Jack: “Yeah. Every risk is an echo of youth. Every leap is a memory of that impossible confidence.”

Jeeny: “But youth wasn’t just about fearlessness, was it? It was about faith. The kind that doesn’t need proof.”

Jack: “And time steals that first. Long before it takes your hair or your strength.”

Host: The rain softened, replaced by a deep, electric silence. Jeeny sat down beside Jack, the faint hum of the city leaking in through the cracks of the building.

Jeeny: “You know, I think Kiefer’s right — youth is amazing. But not because it’s perfect. It’s amazing because it’s blind. Because it walks straight into walls and calls the bruises experience.”

Jack: “And because it forgives itself.”

Jeeny: “Until you grow old enough to remember what you did — and realize that forgiveness was its own kind of innocence.”

Jack: “Exactly. That’s what he’s mourning. The freedom of not knowing better.”

Jeeny: “And the confidence that came with that blindness.”

Jack: “The belief that every moment was a first — and therefore infinite.”

Host: The wind outside blew hard against the old doors, rattling them like applause from ghosts. The stage lights — or what was left of them — blinked faintly, casting a halo around the dust that floated in the air.

Jeeny: “Do you think he’d trade the wisdom for that feeling again?”

Jack: “Everyone would. But no one would admit it.”

Jeeny: “Because admitting it means you still care about what you lost.”

Jack: “And caring about it means you’re still human.”

Host: A soft smile crept across Jeeny’s face. She reached for the bottle and poured them both a little more.
Jeeny: “Here’s to youth — that dangerous, delusional, glorious lie.”

Jack: raising his glass “And to the arrogance that made it possible.”

Jeeny: “And to the humility that comes after.”

Jack: “The best sequel we ever get.”

Host: They drank quietly. The rain slowed, the silence returned, and the air carried that feeling — not of sadness, but of acceptance. The stage, the dust, the fading lights — it all seemed to hum with memory.

And as the night deepened, the truth of Kiefer Sutherland’s words glowed softly between them —

that youth is indeed amazing,
not for its perfection,
but for its beautiful illusion of it;

that it gives us the courage to dream recklessly,
the audacity to believe we’re untouchable,
and the innocence to fail without fear;

and that later, when the mirror grows honest
and the applause grows faint,
we realize the real miracle of youth
was not that we did no wrong —

but that, for one shining moment,
we believed we couldn’t.