The Internet is a cauldron of anger every day, every year

Host: The rain came down in slow, deliberate sheets, turning the city into a mirror of itself — glass towers trembling in puddles, streetlights bleeding into wet asphalt. Inside the newsroom café, the air buzzed faintly with the hum of machines — screens flickering with headlines, fingers tapping keyboards, the faint crackle of static from a nearby television.

Jack sat at a corner table, his laptop open but forgotten. His grey eyes were fixed on the scrolling feed — comments, reactions, outrage stacked like digital bricks. Jeeny arrived with two coffees, setting one in front of him without a word.

Host: The light from the screens painted their faces in cold blue — artificial, restless, alive with too much noise.

Jeeny: “Charles Krauthammer once said, ‘The Internet is a cauldron of anger every day, every year, election year or not, with unemployment at 10 percent or at two percent. It isn’t exactly a good index of what’s happening.’”

Jack: (half-smiling) “A cauldron — that’s generous. I’d call it a landfill of emotion with Wi-Fi.”

Jeeny: “You say that like you don’t check it every hour.”

Jack: “Because I’m addicted to despair. It’s the modern condition.”

Host: His tone was sardonic, but the weariness beneath it was real. The steam from his coffee curled upward, vanishing before it could warm the space between them.

Jeeny: “He’s right though. It’s not a mirror — it’s an amplifier. The Internet doesn’t reflect reality; it reheats it.”

Jack: “And sells tickets.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Outrage is profitable. Calm isn’t.”

Jack: “We used to measure truth by reason. Now it’s measured by retweets.”

Jeeny: “And empathy’s become a limited resource.”

Host: She stirred her coffee slowly, the metal spoon clinking softly against porcelain — a small, human sound amid the digital din.

Jack: “You know what’s funny? The Internet promised democracy of thought — voices from everywhere, ideas from anyone. Instead, it gave everyone a megaphone and nobody a pause button.”

Jeeny: “It’s not funny, it’s tragic. The more we talk, the less we listen. The more we share, the less we feel.”

Jack: “And the more connected we become, the lonelier we get.”

Host: Outside, lightning flashed — briefly illuminating the wet glass of the café window, where their reflections appeared side by side, distorted and merging into static light.

Jeeny: “You think this is permanent? That this rage is just who we are now?”

Jack: “It’s human nature, magnified. The Internet’s just the world’s subconscious — unfiltered, unhealed, unchecked.”

Jeeny: “A collective scream.”

Jack: “Exactly. And we call it communication.”

Host: The television above the counter flickered — muted images of protests, politicians, floods, wars, stock markets — all blending into a single rhythm of chaos.

Jeeny: “Krauthammer was ahead of his time. He saw that the Internet wasn’t the truth; it was emotion pretending to be data.”

Jack: “Emotion pretending to be morality.”

Jeeny: “And morality pretending to be news.”

Host: The café’s door opened and closed in quick intervals — faces lit by phones, eyes glazed with glow. A man laughed loudly at something invisible. A woman typed furiously, her fingers trembling. The world, it seemed, was both screaming and scrolling.

Jack: “You know what I miss? The slowness of conversation. The time it took to think before you answered.”

Jeeny: “Now silence looks like guilt.”

Jack: “And reflection looks like retreat.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The Internet doesn’t want nuance — it wants fuel. And anger burns faster than thought.”

Host: She looked out the window, the rain streaking down like old film running backward. Her eyes softened, the faint ache of compassion slipping through her cynicism.

Jeeny: “But here’s the thing — for all its noise, sometimes the Internet does something miraculous. It connects pain to purpose. It finds lost people. It tells truth when power lies.”

Jack: “That’s the paradox. The same tool that spreads poison also delivers medicine.”

Jeeny: “It’s not the cauldron that’s evil, Jack — it’s what we keep stirring into it.”

Jack: “So you think the problem isn’t the Internet. It’s us.”

Jeeny: “It’s always us.”

Host: A long silence followed. The rain slowed. The glow from the monitors softened, turning their reflections in the window almost human again.

Jack: “You know, there’s this quote from Einstein — he said technological progress is like an axe in the hands of a pathological criminal.”

Jeeny: “Harsh.”

Jack: “Maybe. But he wasn’t wrong. The Internet gave us infinite knowledge — and infinite ways to misunderstand each other.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe wisdom isn’t what you know, but what you choose not to say.”

Jack: “That’d make you obsolete online.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why I still like books.”

Host: Her smile was faint but certain, a rebellion wrapped in gentleness.

Jack: “You think the noise will ever stop?”

Jeeny: “No. But we can step out of it. For a while. Like now.”

Jack: (smiling) “You mean by talking instead of typing.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The oldest technology in the world — conversation.”

Host: The clock above the counter ticked on, steady and analog, as if mocking the chaos of everything digital. Outside, the storm had passed; the street was quiet, cleansed.

Jack: “You know, Krauthammer was cynical — but his cynicism was a kind of faith. He believed reality was still out there, beyond the noise. We just have to keep looking.”

Jeeny: “And listening. Especially when everyone else is shouting.”

Jack: “That’s the real rebellion, isn’t it? Choosing quiet in a world addicted to sound.”

Jeeny: “And kindness in a world addicted to outrage.”

Host: She reached over, closing his laptop with a soft click. The screens around them still flashed — blue light, breaking news, commentary without end. But between them, there was stillness. Human stillness.

Jeeny: “There. For five minutes, the world can go on without us.”

Jack: “Think it’ll notice?”

Jeeny: “No. But maybe we will.”

Host: They sat there, two figures framed by the dim glow of a thousand restless voices, listening not to the Internet, not to the rain, but to the quiet heartbeat of presence.

Host: And for that brief, fragile moment, they proved Krauthammer right —

Host: that the Internet, for all its fury, is no mirror of truth,
but merely a storm of sound,
from which the real world — the world of quiet kindness, laughter, and shared coffee —
still waits to be heard.