Internet is a good and convenient device for us for easy

Host: The rain had just stopped, leaving a thin mist that hovered over the quiet streets of London. The neon lights of a corner café flickered against the wet pavement, casting reflections that shimmered like restless thoughts. Inside, a small radio played softly — an old voice, deep and familiar, quoting a line from Ian Gillan: “Internet is a good and convenient device for us for easy communication. It has lots of value.”

Jack leaned back on the wooden chair, fingers tapping the table with absent rhythm. His grey eyes were distant, cold but curious. Jeeny sat across from him, her hands wrapped around a cup of hot tea, the steam rising like fragile dreams between them.

Jeeny: “It’s strange, isn’t it? How a simple sentence can hold so much truth. The internet really has become a bridge — a way for souls to touch, no matter the distance.”

Jack: “A bridge, sure. But every bridge can collapse when too many cross at once. You call it a bridge, I call it a trap. A machine that feeds on our attention.”

Host: Jack’s voice was low, his tone like smoke. Jeeny’s eyes narrowed, but not in anger — more in quiet disagreement.

Jeeny: “You make it sound so sinister. But think of how many families stay connected because of it. How many lives have been saved through one message, one video call, one act of sharing. That’s not a trap, Jack — that’s progress.”

Jack: “Progress?” He smirked, his lips curling in mild sarcasm. “Tell that to the kids who scroll their lives away. Tell that to people who can’t speak face to face anymore because they’ve forgotten how to feel silence.”

Jeeny: “And yet you’re here, reading, working, connecting through it too. You can’t condemn the tool because some misuse it. We don’t blame the pen for lies written with it.”

Host: Her voice was soft, but her words cut through the air like light breaking through fog. Jack looked down, his fingers tracing the edge of the cup, the way one might trace a memory.

Jack: “The internet gives us illusion, Jeeny — an illusion of being seen, of being heard. But it’s not real connection. It’s all data, pixels, algorithms predicting what we’ll love next. Where’s the human in that?”

Jeeny: “But isn’t that what humans have always done? We’ve always built tools to reach further — letters, telegraphs, telephones. The internet is just the latest language of the heart trying to extend its voice.”

Jack: “Letters had meaning, Jeeny. You could smell the ink, feel the weight of the paper, the handwriting of someone who cared enough to write. Now it’s just emojis and autocorrected half-thoughts.”

Jeeny: “You’re nostalgic for a world that’s gone, Jack. But the value isn’t in the form, it’s in the intention. When a mother sees her son’s face from across the ocean, even through a screen, do you really think it’s less real?”

Host: The wind rattled the windows, a faint hum of distant traffic echoing through the alley. Jack sighed, his breath a thin mist in the cold air.

Jack: “You talk about connection, but what about truth? The same internet you praise is drowning in lies, propaganda, hate, and echo chambers. We’ve built a world where everyone talks, but no one listens.”

Jeeny: “But that’s not the fault of the device. That’s our human weakness — our fear of what’s different. The internet only mirrors us, Jack. If it’s full of hate, maybe that’s because we’ve put hate there.”

Host: Her eyes gleamed with quiet fire, and for a moment, the silence between them vibrated with the weight of shared truth.

Jack: “So you think the internet is just a mirror?”

Jeeny: “Yes. A mirror that can terrify us — but also teach us. During the Arab Spring, people used it to fight for freedom. In Ukraine, it’s a weapon of truth, spreading voices the world would otherwise ignore. Isn’t that value, Jack?”

Jack: “Maybe. But every revolution that starts online also burns out there. People share, tweet, and move on before the dust settles. The internet gives us speed, not depth.”

Jeeny: “Then perhaps the depth isn’t missing from the tool, but from us.”

Host: The rain started again, soft and rhythmic, a curtain between their words and the world outside. Jack’s eyes softened, though his jaw stayed tight.

Jack: “You always make it sound so simple, Jeeny. Like we can just choose to be better.”

Jeeny: “We can. The internet doesn’t decide what we do — we do. It’s a mirror, a bridge, and sometimes a weapon. But we are the hands that hold it.”

Jack: “You think we can control it?”

Jeeny: “I think we can guide it — if we remember what it was meant for: communication, understanding, sharing.”

Host: The light from a passing car briefly lit their faces — Jeeny’s full of faith, Jack’s marked by doubt, both reflected in the window like two halves of one truth.

Jack: “You know, I used to believe that. Back when I was a journalist, I thought information could save the world. Then I saw how fast a lie can spread, how truth struggles to catch up.”

Jeeny: “And yet, you still write. You still speak. That means you haven’t given up. Somewhere in you, you still believe that words — even digital ones — matter.”

Jack: “Maybe I do. But maybe I’m just too stubborn to stop.”

Host: They both laughed softly, a sound that broke the tension. The steam from their cups danced like ghosts of forgotten arguments.

Jeeny: “The internet isn’t evil, Jack. It’s just human. It reflects our best and worst, like every creation we’ve ever made. Fire can cook or burn — it depends on the hands that hold it.”

Jack: “And you think we’ll ever learn to hold it right?”

Jeeny: “Only if we listen to each other again — not just type. Only if we remember that behind every screen, there’s a heartbeat.”

Host: Jack looked at her, a rare softness in his eyes. The clock on the wall ticked — slow, patient. The rain eased, leaving a faint glow on the street outside.

Jack: “So maybe Gillan was right. The internet does have value — but it’s not in the device, it’s in the human who uses it.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s a tool for connection, not a replacement for it.”

Host: The lights in the café dimmed, the last customers left, and the silence settled like a blanket. Jack took one last sip, set his cup down, and smiled — a small, genuine smile that carried the weight of understanding.

Outside, the rain finally stopped. The city breathed, and the world, for a brief moment, felt connected again — not by wires or signals, but by the quiet recognition of shared humanity.