Communications technology changes possibilities for

Host: The rain had just begun, a slow curtain of droplets sliding down the large windowpanes of a corner bookstore café. Outside, the city lights bled through the glass in streaks of gold and amber, flickering like old film reels. Inside, the smell of paper, coffee, and faint dust filled the warm air.

Jack sat by the window, a tablet in his hand, the screen reflecting pale blue light on his face. His grey eyes were tired, his thumb scrolling mindlessly. Across from him, Jeeny was lost in a real book — the pages crisp, her fingers turning them slowly, reverently.

For a moment, only the sound of rain and soft jazz playing from the overhead speaker existed between them. Then, Jeeny looked up, her voice gentle but edged with curiosity.

Jeeny: “You know, Margaret Atwood once said — ‘Communications technology changes possibilities for communication, but that doesn't mean it changes the inherited structure of the brain. You may think you’re addicted to online reading, but as soon as it isn’t available anymore, your brain will adjust. It’s a habit like all habits.’”

Jack: (glancing up from his tablet) “That’s easy for her to say. She didn’t grow up with screens glued to her hands.”

Jeeny: “She’s not saying technology doesn’t matter. She’s saying it’s not destiny. That our brains are more flexible than we think.”

Jack: “Flexible, maybe. But not innocent. You think I can go back to reading printed words after this thing’s trained me to crave instant updates every thirty seconds?”

Jeeny: “Yes, I do. Because habits aren’t evolution, Jack. They’re choices we keep repeating until we forget they’re choices.”

Host: The light from the window glimmered against the steam of Jeeny’s tea. The rain thickened, creating a rhythm that matched her words — calm, certain, deliberate.

Jack set his tablet down, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

Jack: “You make it sound simple. Just ‘unchoose’ the internet. Try that after ten years of constant stimulation. The brain rewires itself, Jeeny. That’s science.”

Jeeny: “Science also says the brain rewires back. Neuroplasticity, remember? The same way a muscle forgets pain but remembers how to move.”

Jack: (raising an eyebrow) “You think we can detox from the digital world like it’s caffeine?”

Jeeny: “Maybe not easily. But yes. People once thought they couldn’t live without radio. Then television. Then social media. But the brain’s like water — it adapts to the shape of whatever container it’s poured into. That’s both our weakness and our gift.”

Host: The jazz tune shifted — a slow trumpet crying softly over low piano chords. The rain outside had turned the world into watercolor — blurred, quiet, strangely intimate.

Jack: “You really think we’ll just ‘adjust’ if the internet disappeared tomorrow? That people like me — who’ve built their jobs, their thoughts, their habits around it — would just pick up a book and hum along like it’s 1985?”

Jeeny: “Yes, eventually. Because survival doesn’t ask for permission, Jack. When something disappears, the brain finds a substitute. That’s why people write on walls, or talk to themselves, or dream.”

Jack: “Dreaming isn’t downloading.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “But it’s older. And it’s the same mechanism — imagination trying to make meaning from noise.”

Host: Jack leaned back, exhaling. His hands were restless, his fingers drumming against the table, like a man trying to quiet a mind that had forgotten how.

Jack: “You know what scares me, Jeeny? It’s not losing access. It’s losing patience. I can’t even finish an article without checking something else. My thoughts skip like stones — never sinking long enough to feel depth.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the cost of abundance. Too much water to drink, so we sip and move on.”

Jack: “And you’re okay with that?”

Jeeny: “No. But I also believe in correction. Humans always swing too far before we find balance. We drowned in the printing press once, too. People said books would destroy memory. Now we romanticize them.”

Jack: “So you’re saying we’ll one day romanticize the internet?”

Jeeny: “Of course. We’ll call it ‘the golden age of connection’ — just before we replace it with something worse.”

Host: A small laugh escaped Jack — short, genuine, almost reluctant. He looked at her, his eyes softening.

Jack: “You always have to be the optimist, don’t you?”

Jeeny: “Not optimist. Observer. I just trust that we aren’t as fragile as our screens make us seem.”

Jack: “You think the brain will just bounce back, huh? After all this rewiring?”

Jeeny: “It already is. Look at you. You came here to read quietly, didn’t you? To escape the noise?”

Jack: “You call this quiet?”

Jeeny: “It’s quieter than your feed.”

Host: The lights flickered briefly as a rumble of thunder rolled across the skyline. The storm outside deepened — not violent, but full of presence.

Jeeny: “You see, Atwood’s right. Technology doesn’t change the essence of who we are — it just amplifies what’s already there. Our hunger for meaning, our fear of silence, our craving for stories. It’s not the medium that owns us, Jack. It’s the hunger.”

Jack: “And hunger’s not something you can delete.”

Jeeny: “No. But you can feed it differently.”

Jack: (sighing) “You make it sound like digital detox is a pilgrimage.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. Back to patience. Back to presence. Back to the sound of your own thoughts before a notification interrupts them.”

Host: The rain softened, turning into a fine mist against the glass. Jeeny closed her book, her hand resting on the worn cover — an old novel with yellowing edges.

Jack watched her — the stillness in her movements, the way she didn’t rush.

Jack: “You ever wonder if silence feels sacred because we’ve made it rare?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But sacred things have always been rare. That’s why they’re worth finding again.”

Jack: “So you think love, patience, and reading — they’ll outlive the code?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because they were here before the code. We built machines to mimic our brains — not the other way around.”

Host: Outside, the storm broke at last, revealing the faint glow of a streetlamp flickering over puddles. The café lights reflected in the water like small galaxies, fragile and endless.

Jeeny: “The brain doesn’t forget how to be human, Jack. It just gets distracted.”

Jack: “And when the distraction’s gone?”

Jeeny: “We remember.”

Host: The camera would pull back now — the two of them framed by rain-slick glass, one reading, one simply watching. The storm had passed, leaving the city washed and new, and inside the small café, time itself seemed to slow.

Between them, the world’s oldest rhythm — conversation, breath, and thought — hummed quietly on.

For all the technology that tried to change them, it hadn’t. Beneath the screens, the scrolling, the noise — their minds, their hearts, their words — remained what they had always been: human.