I use the music to vent, and a lot of the stuff that I am writing

Host: The studio was nearly dark, lit only by the soft amber glow of the mixing board. Cables sprawled across the floor like black veins, carrying the last echoes of a song that had just ended—a low, heavy track pulsing with grit, anger, and something almost beautiful in its pain.

The rain outside drummed against the windows, steady as a metronome. Somewhere in the corner, a bass hummed, a faint vibration in the air that felt more like a heartbeat than sound.

Jack sat at the console, grey eyes half-hidden under the shadow of his cap, his fingers still on the faders as if he couldn’t quite let the silence take over. Jeeny stood behind him, arms folded, watching the last levels drop to zero.

Between them, the words from an interview glowed faintly on the screen:
“I use the music to vent, and a lot of the stuff that I am writing about or was writing about contained a lot of anger and anxiety, stress and depression, so that’s how the album came out so dark.” — Vanilla Ice

Host: The words hung in the air, like the last note of a confession.

Jeeny: “It’s strange,” she said softly, eyes on the monitor. “People forget that pain can be productive.”

Jack: He scoffed lightly. “Productive? You make it sound like therapy with a beat.”

Jeeny: “Isn’t that what it is? Music’s just confession that learned how to dance.”

Jack: “No. Music’s a mirror. It doesn’t heal—it reflects. You don’t come out of it clean, you just see how dirty you’ve become.”

Host: His voice was low, hollow, carrying that familiar mix of fatigue and defiance. The computer screen flickered, casting both their faces in electric blue, like ghosts caught between rhythm and remorse.

Jeeny: “You sound like you’ve been there.”

Jack: “I am there. Every track I mix has a piece of it. That low hum you hear—that’s anxiety. That distortion? That’s anger. Every compressor setting I touch is me trying to control chaos.”

Jeeny: “And does it work?”

Jack: “No. But it keeps me from breaking the silence.”

Host: The rain intensified, rattling the windows like a hand that refuses to be ignored. In the far corner, an old microphone stood on its stand, gleaming faintly in the half-light, waiting for someone brave—or desperate—enough to tell the truth through it.

Jeeny: “Vanilla Ice was right about something, though. The darker the feeling, the more honest the art.”

Jack: “Yeah, but people don’t want honesty. They want melody. They’ll play your pain if it rhymes well enough.”

Jeeny: “You sound bitter.”

Jack: “I sound real. You think audiences care why a song’s dark? They just want to feel something that’s not theirs.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t that the point? To make pain shareable?”

Jack: “Pain doesn’t want to be shared, Jeeny. It wants to be heard. There’s a difference.”

Host: She studied him, the lines of his face caught between shadow and light. The room hummed—not with sound, but with something quieter, deeper, like the echo of two souls walking through the same wound from opposite sides.

Jeeny: “So, all this—” she gestured at the studio “—it’s your therapy?”

Jack: “It’s my exorcism.”

Jeeny: “And the demons?”

Jack: “Still under contract.”

Jeeny: She laughed, softly but sadly. “You know, that’s the problem with turning pain into art—you start protecting it. You think if it leaves, you’ll stop creating.”

Jack: “You’re right.” He paused, eyes fixed on the glowing levels. “But if it stays, at least I still sound like something.”

Host: The rain slowed, tapping now like cautious footsteps. The air between them was thick—not with tension, but understanding.

Jeeny: “Do you ever write anything… lighter?”

Jack: “I tried once. It sounded fake. Like smiling in a mirror when you’re alone.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s where deliverance starts—faking peace until it feels real.”

Jack: “Or until it kills what’s real.”

Host: The studio light dimmed, casting his face in deep shadow. The hum of the electronics became a single low note, vibrating like a memory that refuses to fade.

Jeeny: “You know, anger’s a kind of prayer too.”

Jack: He turned to her, skeptical. “A prayer?”

Jeeny: “Yeah. Every scream is someone talking to a god they don’t believe in. Music just makes it rhyme.”

Jack: “That’s poetic.”

Jeeny: “It’s human. We use rhythm because silence hurts too much.”

Host: A moment of silence followed—real silence. No hum, no hiss, no beat. Just the quiet that feels alive, watching.

Jack: “You really think that kind of pain can save anyone?”

Jeeny: “No. But it can warn them. That’s what art does—it builds a lighthouse out of the darkness.”

Jack: “And then what?”

Jeeny: “Then maybe someone else doesn’t crash.”

Host: The clock above the mixing board ticked, steady as the beat of a half-forgotten song. Jack leaned back, his eyes soft now, reflective, like a man realizing his cage was made of chords.

Jack: “When I was younger, I thought success would fix it. Fame, money, applause—they were supposed to drown out the noise inside. But it just got louder. So I started making darker music to make it honest again.”

Jeeny: “And did it help?”

Jack: “It made me visible.”

Jeeny: “Not the same thing.”

Jack: “No.” He looked up at her, a faint smile breaking through. “But at least now I’m not invisible in my own chaos.”

Host: The light from the mixing board blinked, soft, rhythmic, like a pulse.

Jeeny: “You could turn that chaos into something beautiful, Jack. Not just angry. Beautiful.”

Jack: “Beauty’s just pain dressed up.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But it’s still a choice. You get to decide how to wear it.”

Host: The rain stopped, the city outside still, holding its breath. The recording light on the console flashed once, a small red eye watching. Jack reached forward and pressed the button, the mic now live.

Jack: “You think people would listen to a song about forgiveness?”

Jeeny: “If it’s honest enough, yes.”

Jack: “Then let’s see if honesty still sells.”

Host: His voice came through the speakers, deep, raw, stripped of all polish. The first words trembled, then steadied—part confession, part rebirth.

“I used to fill my silence with sound,
’til the noise started sounding like me.
Now I’m learning that peace isn’t quiet—
it’s the courage to let things be.”

Jeeny closed her eyes, listening—not to the lyrics, but to the truth underneath them.

Host: And for the first time that night, the darkness in the room didn’t feel oppressive. It felt honest, earned, transformative.

Because, as Vanilla Ice had once confessed, the darkness was never the goal.
It was the map—drawn in sound and sorrow—that led to something far more powerful:
the quiet, holy venting that reminds a soul it is still alive.