Here's the problem: People have completely and utterly forgotten

Host: The night was soaked in neon blue and amber reflections from passing cars, gliding like silent ghosts over the wet asphalt. A faint drizzle softened the city’s noise into a hum — as if the world itself was whispering secrets in a language no one bothered to understand anymore.

Inside a dim corner bar, the air hung heavy with cigarette smoke and the low hum of conversation. A jazz record spun lazily somewhere in the back, its crackling tune drowning in the rhythm of rain on glass.

Jack sat alone at the counter, grey eyes fixed on his half-empty glass, the faint tremor of light slicing through the liquid amber. Across from him, Jeeny rested her elbows on the table, chin in her hands, watching him the way one watches a storm—quietly, patiently, knowing it might break any second.

Jeeny: “Carlos Mencia said something I can’t stop thinking about: ‘Here’s the problem — people have completely and utterly forgotten one thing when it comes to communication: intent.’”

Jack: (dryly) “Intent. Right. As if anyone gives a damn what you meant anymore. All that matters is how it sounded — or worse, how it looked online.”

Host: The bartender passed silently, the clink of glasses slicing through their words. The neon light outside pulsed — blue, then red — as if syncing to the argument that was about to begin.

Jeeny: “But that’s exactly the problem, Jack. We’ve replaced understanding with reaction. People don’t listen to connect anymore — they listen to correct. Intent used to be the soul of conversation. Now it’s the first casualty.”

Jack: “Intent is overrated. Words are what matter. If you say something cruel, it doesn’t matter if you ‘didn’t mean it.’ The world judges what’s said, not what’s hiding behind it.”

Jeeny: “But words without context are just noise. You can’t separate meaning from motive. Think of a surgeon cutting flesh — the same motion can be murder or mercy, depending on intent.”

Host: The rain outside thickened, droplets racing down the windowpane like sentences searching for coherence. Jack leaned forward, his voice low, sharp.

Jack: “Intent doesn’t erase damage. Tell that to someone hurt by a careless word, Jeeny. We’re so obsessed with forgiving the speaker that we forget the listener bleeds.”

Jeeny: “And yet, if you never forgive intent, you kill dialogue altogether. Communication dies without grace. Don’t you see it? Online, in the news — everyone shouting, no one listening. Everyone assuming malice where there might only be ignorance.”

Jack: (snorts) “Ignorance causes as much damage as malice. Should we applaud people for not knowing better?”

Jeeny: “No, but we should understand why they don’t know better. That’s what intent reveals. It’s not about excuses; it’s about direction. Whether a person meant to harm or simply failed to see — that difference decides whether there’s room to change.”

Host: The music swelled, a slow trumpet note hanging in the smoky air, bending between melancholy and defiance. Jack’s jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing in thought.

Jack: “You’re too generous. The world doesn’t run on understanding — it runs on accountability. Look at history. Good intentions have built as many disasters as bad ones. Colonialism, religion, even politics — all claimed noble intent. The road to hell, they say.”

Jeeny: “True. But lack of intent — that’s worse. Apathy destroys faster than evil ever could. At least evil has conviction. Apathy has silence.”

Jack: “So, what — every liar gets redemption because they meant well? Every mistake becomes noble because intent was pure?”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. But without intent, you have no compass. You can’t navigate meaning without knowing where it came from. Take Martin Luther King Jr.—his intent wasn’t just justice, it was nonviolence, compassion. That intent shaped how his message lived. Without it, he’d have been just another angry man shouting into the wind.”

Host: A sudden crack of thunder rolled above the city, shaking the windows. For a moment, both sat in silence, the sound pressing down like truth itself.

Jack: “And yet King was misunderstood. Even intent didn’t save him. The world twisted his words too. Maybe intent doesn’t matter because perception always wins.”

Jeeny: “But perception is fleeting. Intent endures. It’s what defines legacy. Look at artists, writers — Van Gogh painted beauty no one saw until he was gone. The world misread him, but his intent spoke louder through time.”

Host: The rain softened, falling now in slow, deliberate rhythm, as though it too were eavesdropping. Jack’s fingers drummed against the counter, restless.

Jack: “You think intent redeems misunderstanding. I think it hides behind it. Politicians use intent as a shield — ‘I didn’t mean it that way.’ Influencers apologize for impact but never for ignorance. We’ve weaponized empathy.”

Jeeny: “That’s not empathy, that’s performance. Real intent isn’t words — it’s consistency. If your actions align with your message, people feel it, even through the noise. Communication isn’t just saying; it’s showing.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes glimmered, fierce but tender, like flame behind glass. The bar light caught the strands of her hair, turning them into dark ribbons of gold.

Jack: (leans closer) “You think people even have intent anymore? Most just speak to be seen. Every post, every opinion—it’s not about truth, it’s about visibility.”

Jeeny: “And yet, even in that vanity, there’s intent — the intent to belong, to be noticed, to be understood. Misguided maybe, but human.”

Jack: (laughs bitterly) “So you’re defending narcissism now?”

Jeeny: “No. I’m defending the lost art of curiosity. To ask, ‘What did you mean?’ before deciding ‘Who you are.’ We’ve forgotten how to pause before condemning. That pause — that’s where understanding lives.”

Host: The room quieted, as if her words pressed against the walls. The rain eased into mist, and the jazz softened into silence.

Jack: (after a long pause) “Maybe… maybe you’re right. Maybe the problem isn’t what people say, but that nobody’s really listening anymore. Everyone just waits for their turn to talk.”

Jeeny: (nods softly) “Exactly. Communication used to be a bridge. Now it’s a battlefield. And every war starts when someone assumes intent without asking for it.”

Jack: “So, what — we start asking again?”

Jeeny: “We start meaning again. That’s harder.”

Host: A faint smile crossed Jack’s face, fragile as dawn light. He looked at Jeeny — really looked — and for the first time, the cynicism in his eyes dimmed.

Jack: “Meaning’s a dangerous thing to bring back. People might start feeling again.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the point.”

Host: The rain stopped entirely now. The air outside shimmered — not clear, but alive, as if washed of pretense. The bar’s neon sign buzzed faintly, spelling one simple word through the glass: “OPEN.”

Jeeny stood, finishing her drink, her reflection merging with the window’s night. Jack remained seated, watching her go, the silence between them now full — not of absence, but of intent.

And as she stepped into the wet street, her footsteps left faint ripples that glowed beneath the fading city lights — reminders that meaning, like water, always seeks its depth.

Host: Somewhere in that still, shimmering world, a truth lingered:
Communication is not what we say — it’s what we mean, and what we dare to understand.