Music and art and culture is escapism, and escapism sometimes is

Host: The night city pulsed with the slow heartbeat of neon — red, blue, violet — bleeding color into the cracked pavement like spilled emotion. Somewhere beyond the skyline, a train moaned low and mournful, while the rain began to fall, thin and relentless, coating every surface in a trembling sheen of reflection.

Inside an old record shop, long since closed to the public, dust motes floated through the air like fading notes from a forgotten song. Vinyl covers lined the walls — Aretha, Coltrane, Hendrix, Public Enemy — ghosts of rhythm watching from their square, faded frames.

Jack stood by a turntable, the needle hovering over a record that spun in silence. His hands, strong but tired, trembled faintly as they hovered above the music that might have saved him once.

Jeeny sat cross-legged on the floor beside a stack of records, her fingers tracing the worn grooves of one sleeve like it was a sacred text.

Jeeny: “Chuck D once said, ‘Music and art and culture is escapism, and escapism sometimes is healthy for people to get away from reality. The problem is when they stay there.’”

Jack: chuckles softly, dropping the needle with care “Yeah. The man built revolutions out of rhythm. He knew the difference between healing and hiding.”

Host: The record crackled, then opened into sound — a slow, smoky beat, the kind that crawled into the spine and lingered. Outside, the rain’s rhythm found harmony with it — nature syncing with rebellion.

Jeeny: “So you think he’s right? That escapism’s healthy?”

Jack: “Of course. Everyone needs an exit. A song, a canvas, a movie — it’s how we survive the ugliness of the world. Art is anesthesia.”

Jeeny: “But anesthesia numbs you, Jack. You can’t live in it. Chuck said it himself — the problem is staying there. How many people get so lost in the fantasy they forget how to return?”

Jack: “Maybe that’s the point — to forget. Reality doesn’t deserve everyone’s full attention all the time. You ever turn on the news? Wars, greed, hypocrisy — art’s the only honest thing left.”

Jeeny: “Art’s honest because it reflects life. Not because it replaces it. The moment it becomes a substitute, it stops being healing — it becomes avoidance.”

Host: The light from the flickering neon sign outside painted her face in shades of red and blue. Her eyes, dark and reflective, held the kind of calm that only conviction could sustain.

Jack: “Avoidance isn’t always bad. Sometimes it’s survival. Music saved more lives than philosophy ever did.”

Jeeny: “Yes — but only because those people eventually came back from it. They took what they found in the escape and brought it home. That’s what art’s for — to show you the world in a way that makes it bearable again.”

Host: The record’s beat deepened, the bass vibrating softly through the floor. Jack leaned back, eyes closing, letting it move through him.

Jack: “When I was a kid, music was my church. I’d sit in my room, headphones on, pretending every lyric was written for me. Those songs — they taught me more than school ever did.”

Jeeny: “What did they teach you?”

Jack: pauses “That pain can sound beautiful. That chaos can have rhythm. That sometimes it’s okay not to understand, just to feel.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “And that’s the gift — not the escape itself, but the return it prepares you for.”

Host: A soft buzz filled the room as the record reached its end. The needle hissed in the empty groove. For a moment, the silence after the music felt louder than the song itself.

Jack: “You ever think we’ve built a world that needs too much escaping from?”

Jeeny: “All the time. That’s the real sickness — not that people escape, but that they have to.”

Jack: “Then what? You want people to just face it all? The bills, the wars, the loneliness — raw and unfiltered?”

Jeeny: “No. I want them to face it after they’ve healed enough to see it clearly. Escapism should give you strength, not shelter.”

Host: The rain softened now, whispering against the windows like quiet applause. The air was thick with nostalgia — the kind that hurts because it still matters.

Jack: “You sound like a preacher tonight.”

Jeeny: “Maybe I’m just tired of seeing people drown in dreams that were supposed to save them.”

Jack: “Dreams are the only clean water left.”

Jeeny: “Not if you never learn to swim.”

Host: He looked at her — really looked — and for the first time, his grin faltered. Beneath her calm voice, there was sorrow; beneath his bravado, a longing to be seen beyond the armor.

Jack: “You ever escape, Jeeny?”

Jeeny: “Every day. Through books, through music, through hope. But I always come back.”

Jack: “Why?”

Jeeny: softly “Because someone has to light the way for those who can’t.”

Host: The record started again, spinning slowly, humming faintly. Jack poured two glasses of whiskey, slid one toward her.

Jack: “To escapism, then — our temporary truce with the truth.”

Jeeny: raising her glass “Only if we promise to return.”

Host: They clinked glasses. The sound was small but sacred — a moment of fragile humanity in the echo of rain and bass.

Jack: “You know, when I was stationed overseas, music was the only thing that made sense. The world was noise — gunfire, orders, grief. But put on a song, and suddenly, for three minutes, there was order again.”

Jeeny: “And what happened when the song ended?”

Jack: quietly “The silence hit harder than the war.”

Host: The lamp light flickered, revealing the thin sheen of moisture in his eyes. Jeeny reached over, her hand resting gently over his — grounding him in the now.

Jeeny: “That’s why you can’t live there, Jack. The silence always comes. And when it does, you have to be strong enough to hear it.”

Jack: “And if you’re not?”

Jeeny: “Then someone else plays the next record until you are.”

Host: The music swelled again — slow jazz, smooth and melancholic, filling the cracks in the room like gold in broken porcelain. The storm outside began to fade, the clouds splitting open to reveal a faint shimmer of moonlight.

Jack: “You ever think art’s the only thing keeping us civilized?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. Or maybe it’s the only thing reminding us that civilization’s supposed to feel something.”

Host: The camera drifted back. The two sat surrounded by the quiet rebellion of vinyl and rain, lost in a world that hummed between illusion and truth.

In the corner, the record spun, endlessly returning to its groove, its imperfections singing louder than perfection ever could.

And as the final note faded into silence, Jeeny spoke one last time — her voice barely above a whisper.

Jeeny: “Art is a door, Jack. But you have to walk back through it eventually — or it becomes a wall.”

Host: The rain stopped. The city exhaled. The record ended.

And in the stillness that followed, the truth of Chuck D’s words lingered —
that escapism is not the crime,
but forgetting to return is the tragedy.

Because art may set us free for a moment —
but only reality lets us learn how to live.