Language as a communication tool is the primary element from

Host: The night was thick with rain, each drop striking the tin roof like a metronome keeping time for forgotten stories. Inside the small library café, the smell of old paper, brewed coffee, and ink mingled into something ancient — something almost sacred.

A record player in the corner spun slow jazz, its crackles merging with the storm’s percussion. Between the shelves, Jack sat at a corner table, his grey eyes tracing lines in an open notebook, his pen tapping rhythmically against its edge. Across from him, Jeeny cupped a steaming mug, her hair damp from the rain, her eyes glimmering with thought.

The walls were lined with books — some leather-bound, others yellowed and fragile — and on the far end, a mural bore a single quote in faded paint:
"Language as a communication tool is the primary element from which literature is created. Even in pre-literate societies, it exists as songs, riddles, or epics that are chanted." — F. Sionil Jose.

Jeeny: (reading softly) “Even in pre-literate societies, it exists as songs, riddles, or epics that are chanted.” Epics that are chanted... I love that. It means even before we could write, we already told stories.

Jack: (half-smiling) “And before we could write, we also lied, exaggerated, and forgot half of what we said. So maybe literature was born not from beauty, but from bad memory.”

Host: The lightbulb above their table flickered faintly, its glow golden and trembling, casting long shadows across their faces. Jeeny smiled, shaking her head slowly.

Jeeny: “You always find a way to twist the sacred into something cynical. But isn’t that the point? Those songs, those chants — they weren’t about accuracy. They were about connection. About memory as belonging.”

Jack: “Belonging, sure. But also control. Whoever controls language controls the story — and whoever controls the story controls history. Words build kingdoms as much as they destroy them.”

Host: He leaned back, his fingers tracing the rim of his cup, eyes distant. The rain continued outside — steady, insistent, almost as if it were narrating something itself.

Jeeny: “But language wasn’t created for power, Jack. It was created for meaning. Even before writing, when people sang under the stars, they weren’t trying to control — they were trying to remember. To honor what they couldn’t explain.”

Jack: “Maybe. But meaning and manipulation are siblings. Think of how religions, governments, even advertising use language. They chant too, Jeeny. Only their songs are slogans now.”

Jeeny: (quietly) “You’re right. But even then — isn’t it miraculous? That something invisible — just sound, just breath — can move civilizations? Can build love, start wars, make a child feel safe? That’s power, yes. But it’s also... divinity.”

Host: The word hung in the air — divinity — and something shifted. The rain softened. A car’s headlights passed outside, throwing a brief shimmer of light across Jeeny’s face. Jack looked at her, really looked, the way one looks at a familiar word and realizes its meaning for the first time.

Jack: “So you think language is sacred.”

Jeeny: “I think language remembers what we’ve forgotten. Even before we wrote, we spoke. Before we spoke, we sang. Before we sang, we listened. Maybe the first poem was just silence made brave.”

Jack: (half amused, half moved) “You always talk like every word is on trial for its soul.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. Language carries everything — our histories, our lies, our hopes. It’s the one inheritance we all share.”

Host: Her voice softened, almost a whisper, but the room seemed to lean in to hear it. The rain had stopped now; only a faint drizzle remained, like the afterthought of a storm.

Jack set his pen down and folded his hands.

Jack: “You know, my mother used to sing folk songs from her village in the north. I never understood the words — dialects from another century — but I could feel them. Maybe that’s what you mean. That language isn’t just comprehension; it’s vibration.”

Jeeny: “Yes. It’s emotion dressed as sound. When people sang before they could write, they weren’t recording facts — they were encoding feeling. That’s what literature still tries to do.”

Jack: “But look what’s happened now. Words are disposable. Tweets, headlines, slogans — no one chants anymore. No one listens. We’ve turned language into noise.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe we’re just changing the instruments. Ancient people chanted under the stars; now we share words through light on screens. The medium changes, but the human need doesn’t.”

Jack: “You really believe a hashtag can hold the same weight as a chant?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes it does. When people rise together, shouting for justice, for hope — isn’t that a chant too? Modern, maybe, but it’s still voice against silence.”

Host: Jack’s brow furrowed. He picked up his notebook, flipping through half-finished pages filled with notes — fragments of stories, questions, arguments.

Jack: “Then maybe literature never died. It just moved.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Literature isn’t pages — it’s pulse. It’s what happens when language dares to feel.”

Host: The clock above the counter ticked slowly, marking time like a heartbeat. The barista in the corner began cleaning glasses, their faint clinks punctuating the rhythm of the dialogue.

Jack: “So you’re saying a meme could be literature.”

Jeeny: (laughs) “If it holds truth, yes. Language has no hierarchy, Jack. Whether it’s Homer’s Iliad or a mother’s lullaby — it’s still the same instinct: to make meaning through sound.”

Jack: “Then maybe we owe our existence to noise.”

Jeeny: “To rhythm. To story. To the courage of someone who opened their mouth and decided to name the world.”

Host: The rain stopped completely now. The air outside was heavy with mist, and the faint hum of the city seemed gentler, as if listening too.

Jack: (softly) “You know, sometimes I envy those preliterate people. Their words weren’t written — so they lived only in memory. You had to carry them, not quote them.”

Jeeny: “That’s the tragedy and beauty of it. Words that vanish are sometimes the ones that last longest — not on paper, but in hearts.”

Host: The two sat in silence. The storm had left a calm so deep that even the ticking of the clock seemed to echo. Jeeny closed her eyes for a moment, as if hearing some ancient rhythm beyond the present.

Jack broke the stillness.

Jack: “So what you’re saying is, literature was never about writing.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Exactly. It was always about listening. About translating heartbeat into sound.”

Jack: “Then maybe every conversation — even this one — is literature.”

Jeeny: “If it’s honest, yes. And maybe one day, someone will tell it again. Not read it, but speak it — as a story by a fire, a song in the rain, a whisper before sleep.”

Host: The record player clicked softly — the song had ended, leaving a faint crackle of silence. Outside, the streetlamps gleamed in puddles, and a faint breeze carried the smell of wet earth and ink.

Jack closed his notebook, his grey eyes thoughtful.

Jack: “So we’re all just ancient poets pretending to be modern.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Every time we speak, we’re chanting something older than memory.”

Host: And as they sat there, two souls bound by sound and silence, the world outside resumed its quiet rhythm — the hum of cars, the whisper of leaves, the echo of stories unrecorded but eternal.

A single drop of water slid down the window, glinting in the dim light, like a word falling free — vanishing, but never lost.