As much as they get a bad press sometimes, platforms like

Host: The city was drowning in the soft haze of evening. Through the wide windows of a rooftop café, the sky bled into a deep amber, streaked with slow-moving clouds. The buzz of conversations, the faint clink of glasses, and the distant hum of traffic below merged into a low, living soundtrack. Inside, phones glowed like miniature fires, each one illuminating a face drawn toward a different world.

Jack sat near the window, his grey eyes fixed on the skyline, a faint reflection of neon lights dancing across his face. Jeeny sat across from him, her hands wrapped around a warm cup, her fingers tracing small invisible circles on the ceramic.

The air between them carried the electric tension of thought — the kind that precedes both argument and understanding.

Jeeny: “You know,” she began softly, “Alice Levine once said, ‘As much as they get a bad press sometimes, platforms like Instagram can be a great place for inspiration… Whatever your passion is, it’s an amazing portal and resource.’”

Jack: (leaning back) “A portal, huh? Sounds poetic. But you and I both know what’s behind that portal — algorithms, advertising, and addiction. You call it inspiration; I call it manipulation.”

Host: The faint laughter from the next table drifted between them. Jeeny’s eyes flickered toward the window, where the last light of the sun clung to the horizon.

Jeeny: “But Jack, isn’t every tool a reflection of the hand that uses it? You can find rot in a garden, sure, but there are still flowers. Instagram gave people dreams, crafts, connections — people who once thought their passions too small to matter now have voices, audiences, even livelihoods.”

Jack: “Dreams sold by brands, Jeeny. Every click, every scroll, is a transaction. You think that kid posting about handmade pottery isn’t being measured by metrics? Likes are the new currency, and validation is the product.”

Jeeny: “You make it sound soulless. But I’ve seen something else. During the lockdowns, remember? People were isolated, desperate for connection. Art, food, music — they poured through the screen. A stranger’s post could lift someone’s day. That’s not a product. That’s human resilience.”

Host: A brief silence stretched between them. The waiter passed by, refilling their cups, the steam rising like a soft veil between words.

Jack: “Resilience? Or escape? You call it community, but most of it’s performance. Everyone showing their best angles, their perfect plates, their spotless lives. We’re turning our existence into a curated museum — for other people’s approval.”

Jeeny: “Isn’t that what art has always done? Painters, poets — they showed their best versions too. Instagram’s just the modern canvas. Only now, everyone has a brush.”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened. He looked out again, the city lights blinking like distant thoughts.

Jack: “But there’s a difference between art and exposure, Jeeny. Art demands intention, effort. What we see now is impulse disguised as expression. People chasing trends, not truth. Do you remember that TikTok pasta recipe? Overnight, everyone was cooking the same thing, posting the same angle. Millions imitating one moment. That’s not creativity — that’s conformity.”

Jeeny: “And yet, Jack, behind that one pasta video, some unknown chef found a career. Some teenager discovered their love for cooking. That same trend filled homes with warmth for a week in a cold world. Can you really call that meaningless?”

Host: Her voice carried warmth and quiet conviction. Outside, the wind brushed against the glass, as if echoing her question.

Jack: “It’s not meaningless, but it’s hollow. Temporary. Like fast food for the mind. Inspiration should come from experience, not a feed designed to keep you scrolling.”

Jeeny: “But Jack, experience is evolving. We used to travel miles to see a painting or taste a dish. Now, we can learn, watch, and share instantly. Isn’t that expansion? Isn’t that the essence of civilization — sharing what we create?”

Host: Jack’s eyes narrowed. His fingers tapped lightly on the table — a rhythm of restrained thought.

Jack: “You’re romanticizing it. Sure, it connects people. But it also consumes them. I’ve seen photographers who stopped seeing the world through their own eyes — they only see it through their lens now. Every sunset, every meal, becomes a potential post. They don’t live the moment; they capture it and move on.”

Jeeny: “Maybe capturing it helps them see it more deeply. Like keeping a journal — only now, the pages are shared. It’s the same impulse — to remember, to connect, to say ‘I was here.’”

Host: The café’s lights dimmed slightly as night fully settled. The music softened into a nostalgic melody — a slow jazz tune that seemed to breathe through the room.

Jack: “You’re telling me that scrolling through a million influencers selling skincare is connection? That’s self-preservation, not sharing. We’ve built a world of mirrors, Jeeny — endless reflections, but no real faces.”

Jeeny: “And yet, those reflections have voices. You can call it narcissism, but I see it as people searching for identity. Think of the movements that started online — #MeToo, Black Lives Matter, environmental awareness. Social platforms didn’t just spread trends; they spread truth. They gave a megaphone to the silent.”

Jack: “And just as many lies spread too — misinformation, outrage, division. For every voice raised in truth, a hundred echo in noise. The same portal you call amazing can turn into a mob in minutes.”

Jeeny: “Then isn’t that our responsibility? The portal is neutral, Jack. The same way a book can enlighten or mislead depending on who reads it. You don’t burn libraries because some books are false.”

Host: Jack let out a slow exhale, his fingers tightening around his cup. A faint smile, tired but sincere, crossed his lips.

Jack: “You always manage to twist my cynicism into hope. Maybe that’s why we still talk.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Because you still want to believe, even if you won’t admit it.”

Host: A moment of quiet understanding settled between them. Outside, the city pulsed with soft, rhythmic light — like the digital heartbeat of humanity itself.

Jack: “Alright, let’s say you’re right. Let’s say Instagram is a resource. Then what happens when the resource becomes the reality? When people care more about appearing inspired than being inspired?”

Jeeny: “Then it’s up to us — not the platform. The portal opens both ways. We can walk in and get lost, or we can look through it and see the world anew. The choice is ours.”

Host: The wind picked up, brushing against the windowpane with a low sigh. The moonlight broke through a patch of cloud, spilling silver light across their table.

Jack: “Maybe that’s the real trick, huh? To use it without being used. To find beauty without worshiping it.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. To see the world through screens, but still remember to touch it with our hands.”

Host: They sat in silence, the steam from their cups rising like two fading ghosts. The neon glow from a passing billboard washed over their faces — an advertisement for a travel company showing a mountain sunrise.

Jack looked at it for a long moment, then turned back to Jeeny.

Jack: “You know, that image — that’s someone else’s morning. Someone out there took that shot. Maybe it inspired me just now.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe Alice Levine was right.”

Host: The clock ticked softly behind the counter. Outside, the first stars emerged, fragile against the skyline. The city, with all its digital noise and neon dreams, hummed quietly — like a massive heart still learning to beat in rhythm with its own creation.

Jack lifted his cup in a small, quiet toast.

Jack: “To portals and the fools who walk through them.”

Jeeny: “To the ones who come back with light.”

Host: And as the night deepened, their laughter blended with the gentle murmur of the café — two souls caught between the real and the virtual, finding truth in the reflection of both. The moon hung high, pale and indifferent, yet somehow — endlessly connected.