A degree of lying - you know, white lies - seems to be inherent

Host: The night hung heavy over the city, a fog rolling in from the river like a secret that didn’t want to be told. The café was nearly empty — just the hum of an espresso machine, the faint hiss of steam, and the soft crackle of a radio tuned to nowhere in particular.

Inside, the light was low, amber and tired, stretching across half-empty cups and forgotten newspapers. Jack sat by the window, his gray eyes fixed on his reflection — half ghost, half skeptic. Opposite him, Jeeny sat in her usual quiet grace, her small frame folded into the chair, a pen resting between her fingers like a weapon disguised as thought.

She spoke without looking up, her voice both playful and philosophical.

Jeeny: “Matthew Lesko once said, ‘A degree of lying — you know, white lies — seems to be inherent in all languages and all forms of communication.’”

Jack: (smirking) “So, honesty’s extinct. Good to know.”

Jeeny: “Not extinct. Just… adapted. Truth needs camouflage to survive in polite society.”

Jack: (dryly) “So we evolved to deceive?”

Jeeny: “No — to connect. You can’t speak pure truth all the time; it would destroy intimacy. Every conversation needs a little fiction to stay alive.”

Host: The steam hissed from the machine again, a soft sigh like the café itself agreed. Outside, a car splashed through puddles. A man laughed too loudly on the sidewalk, his joy a little too polished to be entirely real.

Jack: “You’re saying lying is love now?”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Sometimes, yes. Every time someone says, ‘I’m fine,’ when they’re breaking inside — that’s a white lie of mercy. Not for deception, but for endurance.”

Jack: “Or denial.”

Jeeny: “Maybe both. But isn’t denial sometimes necessary? If we faced raw truth every second, we’d collapse. White lies are scaffolding — they keep us standing until we’re ready for the truth.”

Host: The radio crackled, a jazz tune emerging for a moment, then fading back into static. The world outside the window blurred, shapes and lights melting into each other like half-forgotten promises.

Jack: “You sound like a philosopher defending con artists.”

Jeeny: (teasingly) “And you sound like a cynic pretending to be a saint.”

Jack: (chuckling) “Touché. But still — I don’t buy it. Lies are poison, even the small ones. They corrode trust.”

Jeeny: “Only if they’re used to manipulate. But what about when they protect? A mother telling her child the world is kind — that’s not poison. That’s hope, wrapped in fiction.”

Jack: “And when the child grows up and learns otherwise?”

Jeeny: “Then the lie transforms into wisdom. It teaches that some illusions are stepping stones — necessary to cross the river of fear.”

Host: The light flickered, casting moving shadows across the walls. Jack’s face tightened, not in anger, but in thought. He tapped his fingers against the cup — a rhythm of doubt and curiosity.

Jack: “So the truth is only useful when it’s diluted?”

Jeeny: “No. The truth is like fire. Beautiful, dangerous, and unlivable if you hold it too close. Lies — even small ones — are the gloves that let us handle it.”

Jack: “So humanity survives on linguistic dishonesty?”

Jeeny: “On compassion disguised as dishonesty. Words aren’t built for truth; they’re built for survival. Every sentence is a translation of what the heart can’t fully express.”

Jack: (quietly) “Maybe that’s why we keep misunderstanding each other.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Every language is a mirror with fog on it. We see enough to recognize ourselves, but never enough to see clearly.”

Host: The rain began again, tapping against the glass like a metronome of confession. A streetlight outside flickered, its glow stretching across the puddles, breaking into gold fragments.

Jack: “You know, I once told someone I loved them just to stop a goodbye.”

Jeeny: (softly) “And did you mean it?”

Jack: “In that moment, yes. But the moment passed.”

Jeeny: “Then it wasn’t a lie. It was a temporary truth — a feeling caught in transition.”

Jack: (bitterly) “Funny how we rename deception when it suits us.”

Jeeny: “Not funny. Necessary. Without ambiguity, we’d lose poetry. Without half-truths, we’d lose empathy.”

Host: A pause, deep and still. The clock on the wall ticked, marking seconds that felt more philosophical than temporal.

Jack: “So you think the world needs lies?”

Jeeny: “No. The world needs gentler truths. And until we learn how to speak them, we’ll keep calling them lies.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s what Lesko meant. That language itself — every word, every metaphor — is already a distortion. A compromise between what we feel and what we can say.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Honesty isn’t about accuracy; it’s about intention. You can lie and still love. You can tell the truth and still wound.”

Host: The fog thickened outside, swallowing the city lights until they were just soft glows in the dark. Inside, the café glowed warmer, the isolation turning almost intimate.

Jack: “So maybe communication is less about truth and more about translation.”

Jeeny: “Yes. We translate our souls imperfectly — and the errors are where humanity hides.”

Jack: “You make deceit sound divine.”

Jeeny: (smiling wistfully) “Not divine. Just human. The divine doesn’t need language — we do. And everything we say comes wrapped in our flaws.”

Host: The barista yawned, wiping down the counter, the night slipping toward closure. The world beyond the window had gone silent, as if even the city was too tired to pretend.

Jack: “You know, for someone who believes in compassion through lies, you’re brutally honest.”

Jeeny: “Honesty’s easier in the dark. Nobody can see your face.”

Jack: (smiling) “Maybe that’s why we talk so much at night.”

Jeeny: “Because truth sounds less frightening when whispered.”

Host: The camera of the moment pulled back, the café’s glow shrinking into a small ember in the vast dark city — two souls talking against the inevitability of misunderstanding, two minds weaving truth and tenderness together like silk over stone.

And as the rain softened, Matthew Lesko’s words echoed, stripped of irony, now sounding almost like a prayer:

That language itself is a lie
we all agree to believe —

a beautiful, fragile bridge
between the impossible purity of feeling
and the imperfect shapes of speech.

That every white lie
is not deception,
but translation —
an attempt to turn pain into poetry,
confusion into comfort.

And that perhaps,
what makes us truly human
is not our ability to tell the truth,
but our grace in knowing
when not to.

Host: The lights dimmed,
and as Jack and Jeeny sat in silence,
the world beyond them breathed —
honest in its chaos,
and lying beautifully,
like every heart that ever tried to speak.