Try not to be either intimidated by or a captive of jargon. Even

Host: The conference room was empty now, save for the echo of a thousand buzzwords still hanging in the air — synergy, optimization, scalability. The whiteboard was cluttered with the hieroglyphs of the modern age: arrows, circles, acronyms, half-erased slogans.

Through the wide glass windows, the city shimmered below — a living organism of light and motion, its skyscrapers glowing like silent witnesses to ambition. The faint hum of the air conditioning filled the silence, mechanical, indifferent.

Jack stood by the window, his tie loosened, his jacket off, sleeves rolled to his elbows — a man who had just survived a meeting, but lost a little of his soul in the process. His grey eyes were sharp, tired, but still burning with thought.

Jeeny sat cross-legged on the edge of the conference table, sipping cold coffee, her long hair pulled back, her brown eyes gleaming with amused defiance.

Host: The fluorescent lights flickered softly above, humming like tired insects. It was that strange hour between exhaustion and revelation — when the mind, stripped of performance, begins to tell the truth.

Jeeny: “Christie Hefner once said,” she began, her tone gentle but edged with irony, “‘Try not to be either intimidated by or a captive of jargon. Even though it's language, and language is about communication, it often exists actually to obfuscate and to control power and not to communicate.’”

Jack: “She must’ve attended one of our meetings,” he muttered.

Jeeny: “Don’t tell me you’re one of them, Jack — the jargon poets.”

Jack: “Poets?” He laughed softly. “No, I’m more like a translator — I convert gibberish into survival.”

Host: The city lights flickered on his face — fragments of gold and steel — as if reflecting his duality: cynic and believer, man and machine.

Jeeny: “You realize jargon is the new currency of fear, right?” she said. “People hide behind it because they’re terrified of being clear. Clarity makes you vulnerable. When you say something simply, people can finally see what you mean — and question it.”

Jack: “Or dismiss it,” he countered. “People don’t want truth. They want the illusion of understanding. Jargon gives that — it sounds smart enough to be trusted, vague enough to be safe.”

Jeeny: “That’s not communication,” she said. “That’s camouflage.”

Host: She slid off the table, walked slowly toward the window, her reflection merging with the skyline.

Jeeny: “Language was supposed to bridge us, Jack. Now it’s a gate — one guarded by those who profit from confusion.”

Jack: “That’s a little dramatic.”

Jeeny: “Is it?” she asked, turning toward him. “Think about it. Every field — law, medicine, business, even art — invents its own vocabulary not to express, but to exclude. It’s not about clarity; it’s about control.”

Jack: “And yet,” he said, “people worship it. A man who speaks in riddles sounds profound; a man who speaks plainly sounds naïve. Maybe power lives in the fog because that’s where imagination thrives.”

Jeeny: “Or manipulation.”

Host: The silence between them pulsed — like static before thunder. Outside, the city shimmered like a living metaphor for everything they were debating: brilliant, complex, beautiful, and utterly indecipherable.

Jack: “When I started in this industry,” he said quietly, “I thought learning the language meant belonging. Every acronym, every buzzword — they were passwords. Speak them fluently, and doors opened. But somewhere along the way, I realized... I wasn’t saying anything anymore. Just reciting.”

Jeeny: “Exactly,” she said, stepping closer. “Jargon doesn’t make you belong. It makes you disappear.”

Jack: “Maybe,” he said. “But simple speech can be dangerous, too. It strips away armor. When you say something plainly, you can’t hide behind semantics.”

Jeeny: “That’s the point,” she said softly. “Plain speech is power. It’s rebellion against linguistic hierarchy. It says, ‘You don’t need to sound complex to have value.’”

Jack: “But we live in a world where complexity is the new religion.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it’s time for heresy.”

Host: A flicker of lightning lit the sky — distant, brief, but enough to catch the silver edge in Jeeny’s eyes.

Jack: “You’d make a terrible executive,” he said with a smirk. “You believe in understanding.”

Jeeny: “And you’d make a terrible revolutionary,” she replied. “You still believe in systems.”

Host: The rain began to fall, slow at first — beads of light cascading down the glass. Their reflections blurred, distorted, merging into something abstract and fragile.

Jack: “So what, Jeeny? You want a world where everyone speaks plainly? No layers, no nuance?”

Jeeny: “No,” she said. “I want a world where words serve meaning — not status. Where language connects instead of divides.”

Jack: “That’s idealistic.”

Jeeny: “No, it’s human.”

Host: Her tone was gentle now, but her eyes burned with quiet conviction.

Jack: “You really think language can be purified? It’s evolved through power, through persuasion, through survival.”

Jeeny: “Exactly,” she said. “Language is alive. But like anything alive, it can get sick. Jargon is its disease — the infection of ego.”

Jack: “Then who cures it?”

Jeeny: “People who remember that truth doesn’t need translation.”

Host: Jack looked at her for a long moment — the rain streaking down the glass behind her like a thousand untold sentences. He took a sip of his drink, his thoughts caught between admiration and discomfort.

Jack: “You know,” he said, “sometimes I envy the simplicity of poets. They use fewer words, but they hit harder.”

Jeeny: “That’s because they’re not afraid of being understood.”

Jack: “Or judged.”

Jeeny: “Those are the same thing,” she said.

Host: The rain intensified, turning the city into a blurred watercolor of color and sound. The whiteboard behind them gleamed faintly, the once-mighty words Innovation, Synergy, Impact now meaningless scribbles dissolving in the half-light.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right,” he said finally. “Maybe clarity is the last act of rebellion left.”

Jeeny: “It’s not rebellion,” she said. “It’s honesty.”

Jack: “Honesty doesn’t sell.”

Jeeny: “No,” she said, smiling faintly. “But it heals.”

Host: They stood together in the quiet aftermath of their debate, the rain’s rhythm now steady — cleansing. The city lights below seemed to pulse like a living language, still indecipherable, but beautiful nonetheless.

Jeeny reached for her coat, preparing to leave.

Jeeny: “You know what I realized tonight?” she said, turning back toward him. “The more we complicate our words, the less we recognize our voice.”

Jack: “And when we lose that?”

Jeeny: “We stop meaning anything at all.”

Host: Her words lingered, soft yet sharp, echoing in the sterile room. Jack looked out once more at the sprawling city — its towers, its jargon, its invisible scripts of power — and for the first time in years, the noise began to sound hollow.

He whispered, almost to himself:

Jack: “Maybe it’s time we started talking like people again.”

Host: Jeeny smiled, faint and knowing, before walking out into the storm — leaving behind the echo of truth in a room built for pretense.

Outside, the rain washed over everything — the streets, the signs, the city — stripping away language, leaving only sound.

And for a fleeting moment, the world was finally, beautifully, silent —
and understood.