No one who set out to design a form of communication would ever

Host: The rain fell in thin silver threads against the glass walls of the airport terminal. Beyond the mist, the runway lights blinked like distant stars, guiding machines made by men through the infinite gray. Inside, voices overlapped — a symphony of confusion. English, Mandarin, Spanish, Arabic, Hindi — a chorus of tongues clashing and blending in the same humid air.

Jack sat by the window, a cup of black coffee untouched before him, while Jeeny scrolled through her phone, her eyebrows knitted in thought.

Host: The world outside was motion, the world inside was stillness. And in that stillness, a question — a strange, human one — began to form.

Jeeny: “Joshua Foer once said, ‘No one who set out to design a form of communication would ever end up with anything like English, Mandarin, or any of the more than six thousand languages spoken today.’ He’s right, isn’t he? Language — it’s chaos wearing the mask of order.”

Jack: “It’s not chaos, Jeeny. It’s evolution. Messy, yes, but efficient enough to survive. Like us.”

Jeeny: “Efficient? English alone has a thousand exceptions for every rule. Mandarin turns tones into meaning. How is that efficient?”

Jack: “Efficiency isn’t the point. Survival is. Languages evolved, not designed. They weren’t made in a lab; they were born in fire — from the need to beg, to barter, to confess. That’s their perfection.”

Host: The rainlight shimmered across Jack’s face, half illuminated, half shadowed — the way his thoughts always were: divided between reason and something unspoken.

Jeeny: “So, you’re saying the confusion is the beauty?”

Jack: “I’m saying confusion is inevitable when you’re dealing with humans. We’re inconsistent. We lie. We exaggerate. We twist words to mean what we want. If language had been designed, it would’ve been stripped of that humanity — pure function, no poetry.”

Jeeny: “But wouldn’t that be better? Imagine if we all understood one another perfectly — no misunderstandings, no wars fought over mistranslations, no broken hearts over wrong words.”

Jack: “Sounds sterile. Like a world without mistakes, or music.”

Host: A plane took off outside, its engines roaring like thunder made of metal. The vibration rippled through the floor, shaking the coffee cups and thoughts alike.

Jack: “Look, Jeeny, you know how many times miscommunication has created something new? Picasso’s Les Demoiselles d’Avignon was born because he misread African masks. The Beatles misheard an R&B riff and invented rock. Confusion isn’t a flaw — it’s the spark.”

Jeeny: “So misunderstanding is progress?”

Jack: “Sometimes. Every invention starts with someone hearing the wrong thing and believing it could still make sense.”

Jeeny: “Then why do we suffer for it? Think of lovers who break because one word came out wrong. Or nations that burn because translation failed.”

Host: Her voice trembled slightly, a quiet ache beneath the idealism. Jack noticed, though he said nothing for a moment. The rain softened, tapping like fingers on the glass.

Jack: “Because that’s the cost of imperfection. But imperfection is what keeps us real. You can’t have emotion without distortion. You can’t have intimacy without risk.”

Jeeny: “Risk? Or chaos disguised as communication?”

Jack: “Both. Maybe they’re the same thing.”

Host: Jeeny leaned forward, her elbows on the table, her eyes bright, reflecting the reflected lights of the airport hall — like someone holding both hope and frustration at once.

Jeeny: “You talk like chaos is noble. But look at the world, Jack. Six thousand languages, and people still kill each other over words. Words should unite us, not divide us.”

Jack: “You want unity? Then you want control. A universal tongue. That’s not communication — that’s dictatorship of the mind.”

Jeeny: “No, it’s understanding.”

Jack: “No. It’s uniformity. And that’s death for the soul.”

Host: The sound of an announcement filled the terminal, an unintelligible string of syllables distorted by static. For a moment, neither could tell which language it was. They both smiled, faintly.

Jeeny: “There. You see? Even machines can’t make sense of us.”

Jack: “And yet, somehow, we board the right flights.”

Host: That small laugh between them cut through the cold air, warming the moment like the first spark in a dark cave.

Jeeny: “You make it sound poetic, but what if we’re trapped in our own limitations? What if our words are too small for our thoughts? Maybe that’s why we fight, and pray, and paint — because language fails.”

Jack: “Maybe. Or maybe it’s because language forces us to try harder. Every failure to say what we mean pushes us closer to feeling it.”

Jeeny: “That’s beautiful, Jack. But it doesn’t make it easier.”

Jack: “No. But it makes it human.”

Host: A moment of silence lingered between them, filled with the soft murmur of distant languages and the low hum of departing planes.

Jeeny: “Do you know what I find tragic? Somewhere right now, two people are saying the same thing — but in different words — and both think they’re arguing.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s every conversation ever had.”

Jeeny: “Then what’s the point?”

Jack: “The point is that they’re still talking.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes softened, her lips curving into the faintest smile. The rain slowed, turning from storm to mist.

Jeeny: “So, you think language — all this imperfection — is worth keeping?”

Jack: “I think it’s the most human thing we’ve got. A system no one designed, yet everyone shapes — like a city built over centuries, layer after layer, mistake after mistake. And still, people find their way home.”

Jeeny: “Even if they have to ask for directions in broken words?”

Jack: “Especially then.”

Host: The PA system crackled, calling their flight. The words, fragmented and fuzzy, were almost unintelligible, but somehow, they both understood. They rose, gathering their bags, moving toward the gate where strangers were speaking in a dozen tongues — yet all headed toward the same sky.

Jeeny: “You know, maybe you’re right. If we ever had a perfect language, it’d lose something essential — the struggle to mean more than what’s said.”

Jack: “Exactly. Meaning isn’t in the words, Jeeny. It’s in the reaching.”

Jeeny: “Reaching?”

Jack: “Yeah. Every word is just a hand, reaching through the fog. What matters is that someone reaches back.”

Host: They walked together through the terminal corridor, surrounded by faces and voices from every corner of the earth. A child laughed in French. A couple whispered in Spanish. A man muttered into his phone in Japanese. The soundscape was chaos — and yet, somehow, it was harmony.

At the security gate, Jeeny turned to him.

Jeeny: “Maybe the beauty of language is that it was never designed at all. It’s just us — trying, failing, and still trying again.”

Jack: “Yeah. And maybe that’s the only kind of communication that ever mattered.”

Host: The doors slid open, and the two stepped onto the boarding bridge, the sound of the rain fading behind them. The plane lights blinked outside like tiny constellations, each one a story, a dialect, a song.

And as they disappeared into the humming belly of the aircraft, the terminal filled once again with thousands of voices — all different, all imperfect, all reaching, endlessly, beautifully, toward understanding.

Host: In that vast, unplanned symphony, the world kept speaking — broken, alive, and human.