We are shallow because our media are so horribly shallow. Every

Host:
The night rain had ended just before dawn, leaving the streets glistening with reflections of neon signs and puddled silence. The city was half-awake — not alive yet, but restless, murmuring under its breath like something dreaming of itself.

Inside a small, dimly lit coffee shop, the smell of burnt espresso and wet pavement filled the air. A stack of newspapers lay untouched on the counter, their headlines screaming in bold fonts but saying nothing at all.

Jack sat by the window, his grey eyes fixed on the front page, scanning the words with the intensity of someone looking for meaning and finding dust. His cup of coffee had gone cold, untouched — steam long dead.

Across from him, Jeeny stirred her tea slowly, her brown eyes soft but sharp, watching him with the patience of someone who still believed there was beauty in conversation, even when the world had forgotten how to listen.

She unfolded a clipping she’d brought with her, the edges yellowed slightly by time. Her voice, low but unwavering, broke the hum of the city outside.

"We are shallow because our media are so horribly shallow. Every morning, I peruse the papers, and there is so little to read in them. It is the same with radio — all that noise, that artifice." — F. Sionil Jose

Jeeny:
(quietly)
It’s strange, isn’t it? How he said this decades ago, and it still feels like a headline we missed.

Jack:
(smiling bitterly)
Yeah. Except now the paper’s digital and the noise has a million followers.

Jeeny:
(sighs)
And the artifice has a filter.

Jack:
Exactly. We’ve mistaken volume for value.

Jeeny:
And speed for truth.

Jack:
(pauses)
Every morning, we scroll and call it awareness — but it’s just anesthesia.

Jeeny:
(softly)
You think we became shallow because we wanted to?

Jack:
No. We became shallow because the deep parts started to hurt.

Host:
A long silence hung between them — not heavy, but contemplative. Outside, a newspaper boy cycled past, tossing rolled bundles onto wet porches. Each thud echoed like punctuation on a sentence no one had time to read.

Jeeny:
He called it “noise” — all that clamor pretending to be connection.

Jack:
And “artifice.” The prettiest word for what’s killing honesty.

Jeeny:
(smiling faintly)
You sound like him.

Jack:
Maybe I’m just tired of pretending cynicism is sophistication.

Jeeny:
You think cynicism’s a form of artifice, too?

Jack:
Of course. It’s just another mask — the clever person’s way of avoiding heartbreak.

Jeeny:
(pauses)
And heartbreak is what makes us deep.

Jack:
Exactly. You can’t build depth without being broken.

Host:
The rain started again, tapping softly against the window. It wasn’t violent — just rhythmic, almost meditative. The café light flickered, casting ripples of shadow across their faces.

Jeeny:
Maybe that’s what he was mourning — not just the loss of substance, but the loss of silence.

Jack:
(sighs)
Yeah. We’re terrified of silence now. It feels like failure.

Jeeny:
And yet, silence is where all real thought begins.

Jack:
(pauses)
You ever notice how the world keeps giving us more to hear, but less to listen to?

Jeeny:
That’s because listening requires stillness — and stillness feels like surrender in a world obsessed with motion.

Jack:
And surrender feels like weakness.

Jeeny:
(smiling softly)
Maybe that’s why art feels so rare now. It asks us to stop — and we’ve forgotten how.

Host:
The barista turned off the radio behind the counter. The sudden absence of sound felt startling — and somehow holy. Even the rain outside seemed to hush itself.

Jack:
You think the media made us shallow, or we made them that way?

Jeeny:
Maybe both. Media only reflect the hunger they feed.

Jack:
So we’re complicit.

Jeeny:
Of course. We traded contemplation for convenience.

Jack:
And meaning for entertainment.

Jeeny:
(smiling faintly)
But isn’t that the irony? We drown in information and still starve for understanding.

Jack:
(pauses)
And the few who still care about depth are called nostalgic.

Jeeny:
Or idealistic.

Jack:
Or impossible.

Jeeny:
But not wrong.

Host:
A faint glow of dawn began to bleed into the horizon. The first commuters appeared outside, faces lit by their phone screens, walking ghosts of routine. The world was waking up — but not awakening.

Jeeny:
You ever wonder what “deep” even means anymore?

Jack:
It means being willing to sit with discomfort. To face the complexity that headlines can’t hold.

Jeeny:
And to see people as stories, not statistics.

Jack:
Yeah. But that kind of seeing takes time — and time’s the one thing the machine doesn’t want us to have.

Jeeny:
Because time breeds thought, and thought breeds resistance.

Jack:
(smiling faintly)
You sound dangerous.

Jeeny:
Only to algorithms.

Jack:
(chuckling)
Then may we all become dangerous again.

Host:
The city’s light grew brighter, the puddles outside reflecting fractured skies. The coffee had gone cold, but neither of them seemed to care. What mattered was the quiet — the rare, heavy quiet that felt like thought taking root.

Jeeny:
You know, he wasn’t just talking about media — he was talking about the soul.

Jack:
Yeah. When culture loses its soul, it compensates with spectacle.

Jeeny:
And spectacle sells.

Jack:
(smiling)
Of course it does. Truth demands reflection; illusion demands reaction. Guess which one’s better for business.

Jeeny:
(pauses)
But reflection’s better for the heart.

Jack:
And the heart’s gone out of fashion.

Jeeny:
Then maybe it’s time we bring it back — one quiet conversation at a time.

Jack:
Maybe that’s our rebellion — not outrage, but attention.

Jeeny:
Yes. To listen deeply, to read slowly, to speak carefully. That’s the new revolution.

Host:
The sun finally broke through the clouds, splashing gold across the rain-slicked window. Jack folded the newspaper and pushed it aside. Jeeny smiled — the kind of smile that doesn’t seek to brighten, only to understand.

Host:
And as the morning fully bloomed, F. Sionil Jose’s words lingered like a quiet sermon in the noise of a world too loud to hear itself:

That shallowness is not born — it is taught.

That when we trade depth for distraction,
we trade the very marrow of our humanity for convenience.

That every click and every shout
draws us further from what it means to feel,
to reflect,
to truly see.

And that salvation, if it comes at all,
will not arrive through noise or speed —
but through silence,
through the brave and forgotten act
of thinking.

The rain stopped.
The radio stayed off.
And as Jack and Jeeny stepped out into the quiet morning,
the world seemed momentarily still —
as if listening, at last,
for something true.