If what is communicated is false, it can hardly be called

Host: The night was cold, the city muted under a silver fog that wrapped the streets in ghostly silence. A single lamplight flickered over the corner café, where the smell of burnt coffee and old books lingered. Inside, shadows danced across the walls like restless memories. Jack sat by the window, his coat unbuttoned, his hands clasped tightly around a cup of black coffee. Jeeny entered quietly, her eyes filled with that soft kindness that seemed to defy the hard edges of the world.

Host: The clock on the wall ticked, each second a measured heartbeat between truth and illusion.

Jeeny: “Benjamin Mays once said, ‘If what is communicated is false, it can hardly be called communication.’”
She paused, her voice a whisper against the humming silence. “Do you believe that, Jack? That truth is the soul of communication?”

Jack: (with a faint, tired smile) “Truth is an ideal, Jeeny. But communication is a tool. People use it to connect, to influence, to survive. Whether it’s true or false—doesn’t matter. What matters is that it works.”

Host: The steam from the coffee rose between them like a veil, shimmering in the dim light.

Jeeny: “So if someone lies to you, and you believe it, that’s still communication?”

Jack: “Of course. The words were sent, the meaning was received. The purpose—whatever it was—was fulfilled.”

Jeeny: “But then what’s the difference between truth and deception? Between understanding and manipulation?”

Jack: “Only in consequence. A lie that keeps someone alive is better than a truth that destroys them.”

Host: A gust of wind rattled the window, and the light flickered across Jack’s eyes—grey and hard, yet carrying the faintest glimmer of regret.

Jeeny: “You sound like you’ve lived inside lies, Jack.”

Jack: “Haven’t you? The world runs on them. Governments, advertisements, even love—they all bend truth to survive. Remember the Cold War propaganda? Both sides claimed to speak truth, but each one built their own worldview, their own myth. Still, people believed, people fought, people died. That’s communication, Jeeny—powerful, even when false.”

Host: Her eyes darkened, her fingers tightened around her cup, the heat burning her skin but not as much as his words.

Jeeny: “Powerful, yes. But not human. Communication isn’t just transmission of data, Jack—it’s understanding. It’s the bridge between souls. If what is said is false, that bridge collapses. It’s not communication, it’s betrayal.”

Jack: “You’re romanticizing it. Language isn’t sacred. It’s just a weapon in a world of survival. Even animals lie—camouflage, mimicry—it’s deception that saves them.”

Jeeny: “Animals deceive to protect. Humans lie to control. There’s a difference.”

Host: The room grew tenser, the air thick with the unsaid. Outside, the rain began to fall, softly, then heavier, echoing against the glass like distant applause.

Jack: “You think truth is simple? That if everyone just told the truth, the world would be better? Look at history. When Galileo spoke the truth about the stars, they almost killed him. When whistleblowers tell the truth today, they’re silenced, exiled, or destroyed. The world doesn’t want truth—it wants comfort.”

Jeeny: “But without truth, there is no trust. And without trust, what kind of world are we building?”

Jack: “A realistic one.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack—a lonely one.”

Host: Her voice broke slightly on that word—lonely. Jack looked away, the lines around his eyes deepening, as though every lie he had ever spoken had been carved there by time.

Jeeny: “Think of Martin Luther King Jr. He communicated truth, even when the world called it dangerous. His words didn’t just reach the ears of men; they reached their hearts. That’s what communication means—when truth becomes shared humanity.”

Jack: “And he was shot for it. Maybe that’s the price of truth—but most people aren’t willing to pay it.”

Host: The rain intensified, drumming harder on the roof, as if punctuating every syllable.

Jeeny: “Then what are we, Jack? If we only speak what’s useful, and not what’s true, we become machines—cold, calculating, empty.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s what progress demands. Efficiency, not authenticity. Results, not righteousness.”

Jeeny: “You don’t believe that. I’ve seen you hesitate when someone lied to you. You felt the sting, didn’t you? You knew it broke something inside.”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened, his eyes flickering with something raw—pain, memory, guilt.

Jack: “Once. Years ago. Someone I trusted—they lied. But the truth would have hurt more.”

Jeeny: “And yet you still hurt, don’t you?”

Jack: (quietly) “Every day.”

Host: A long silence filled the space, so dense it felt like even the rain was listening. The lamp above them buzzed, casting a halo of dull amber light on the table, where two half-empty cups mirrored two wounded souls.

Jeeny: “Then maybe Benjamin Mays was right. Falsehood isn’t communication—it’s separation. The moment we stop telling each other the truth, we stop being human.”

Jack: “But can you really judge every lie the same way? What about the doctor who tells a dying child that everything will be okay? Or the soldier who tells his friend’s mother that he didn’t suffer?”

Jeeny: “Those are not lies, Jack. Those are acts of mercy. They protect truth’s soul even when its words must bend. But when falsehood is used to control, to profit, to deceive—that’s when communication dies.”

Host: The rain softened, becoming a whisper, a confession. The clock ticked slower, as if waiting for something to heal.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe the worst lies are the ones we tell ourselves—to justify, to sleep, to forget.”

Jeeny: “And maybe the best truths are the ones we’re afraid to speak.”

Host: The two sat in silence, the steam from the coffee now only a memory in the cold air. Outside, the streetlights glowed, reflecting in the puddles like small, trembling moons.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny… maybe truth isn’t about being right. Maybe it’s about being real.”

Jeeny: “And being real—that’s the only way we can truly reach each other.”

Host: A smile, small and fragile, touched her lips, and for the first time, Jack returned it. The fog outside thinned, and a faint light from the street broke through the window, painting them in soft gold.

Host: In that moment, the world seemed to pause—between truth and illusion, between sorrow and understanding. The light did not judge. It merely illuminated.

Host: And in that illumination, two souls communicated—not with words, but with the quiet, unspoken truth of being understood.