An angry man is again angry with himself when he returns to

Host: The night settled over the city like a thick velvet curtain, muffling the sounds of distant traffic. Rain whispered against the windows of a small apartment, its rhythm soft and almost apologetic. Inside, the light of a single lamp spilled across the wooden floor, golden and warm, touching two faces half lost in shadow.

Jack sat by the window, a half-empty glass of whiskey in his hand, his eyes fixed on the faint reflections in the rain-streaked glass. His jaw was set, his posture rigid, as though the tension in his body held him together. Across from him, Jeeny sat quietly, her hands wrapped around a steaming cup of tea, her gaze calm yet alert — like a still lake before a coming storm.

The room was heavy with unspoken thoughts.

Host: The quote hung in the air, written on a torn piece of paper between them:
"An angry man is again angry with himself when he returns to reason." — Publilius Syrus.

Jeeny: (softly) “It’s a strange truth, isn’t it? That anger, when it cools, always leaves regret behind. Like ashes after a fire.”

Jack: (snorts) “Regret is a luxury, Jeeny. People get angry because they care — about something, about someone. It’s human. Why should we hate ourselves for it later?”

Jeeny: “Because anger blinds us, Jack. It makes us cruel. And when the storm passes, we see the damage we’ve done — and realize it was to ourselves all along.”

Host: A flicker of lightning lit the room for a moment, painting Jack’s features in sharp contrast — the shadow of his past seemed etched into the lines around his eyes.

Jack: “You talk like you’ve never been angry.”

Jeeny: (quietly) “I have. More than you think. I once yelled at my father the night before he went into surgery. I said things I can’t take back. When he died the next morning… I realized my anger wasn’t at him. It was at fear. And then, I hated myself for it.”

Host: Her voice trembled slightly, the tea in her cup rippling from her shaking hands. Jack looked away, the sound of rain filling the silence.

Jack: “We all say things we regret. But that’s not anger’s fault — it’s reality. You can’t expect people to stay calm in a world that keeps pressing them, cheating them, breaking them down. Anger is proof that something still burns inside.”

Jeeny: “And when the fire turns everything to dust, what’s left, Jack? You say it’s proof of life, but sometimes it’s the very thing that kills it.”

Host: The lamp flickered, throwing shadows across their faces, like the flicker of a dying flame. Outside, the rain grew harder, pounding like a heartbeat against the window.

Jack: (leans forward) “So what — you think we should all be saints? Suppress every rage, every instinct? You know who tried that? The Stoics. They preached about reason ruling over emotion — and look how that turned out. The world still burned with wars, betrayal, and grief.”

Jeeny: “The Stoics didn’t fail, Jack. People did. They misunderstood that reason isn’t the enemy of emotion — it’s its guide. The anger isn’t wrong, but it has to serve something greater than itself.”

Jack: (smirks) “Serve? You sound like one of those corporate motivational speakers — telling workers to channel their anger into productivity while they’re being exploited.”

Jeeny: “That’s not what I mean. I’m talking about understanding it — turning it inward, not outward. You can’t control what the world throws at you, but you can control how you respond. That’s what Publilius meant — the real enemy isn’t out there. It’s the one inside, waiting for the moment you come back to reason.”

Host: The rain softened, its rhythm slower now, more forgiving. The city outside blurred into a thousand trembling lights. Jack’s hand tightened on the glass, the ice inside clinking like tiny echoes of his own conflict.

Jack: “You make it sound so simple. But what about injustice, Jeeny? What about when people are truly wronged? When a woman is betrayed, when a worker is fired unfairly, when a nation is invaded? You think they shouldn’t be angry?”

Jeeny: “They should be. But righteous anger is different from vengeful anger. Martin Luther King was angry, too — but he used his anger to build, not destroy. He said, ‘We must learn to live together as brothers or perish together as fools.’”

Jack: “And he was killed for it.”

Jeeny: (pauses) “Yes. But his anger outlived him — in change, in hope. Tell me, Jack — whose anger lasted longer: his, or the men who shot him?”

Host: Jack’s eyes fell to the floor, his expression softening, his shoulders loosening as though a weight had been lifted, only to be replaced by another — quieter, heavier one.

Jack: “You always turn it back on me.”

Jeeny: (smiles faintly) “Because you already know the truth, Jack. You just don’t like it.”

Host: A moment of silence hung between them — thick, fragile, alive. The sound of distant thunder rolled across the sky, fading into stillness.

Jack: “You know… sometimes I get so angry I can’t even think. It’s like the world goes red. Then, when I finally calm down, I realize I wasn’t even fighting the person in front of me. I was fighting… myself.”

Jeeny: “That’s what Publilius meant. The angry man always returns to reason like a traveler returning home — and finds his house burned by his own hand.”

Host: Jeeny’s words hung in the air, shimmering like mist in the dim light. Jack’s breathing deepened, his eyes distant — as if seeing the ruins of all the times he’d lost himself in rage.

Jack: “So what do we do then? When the damage is done, when reason finally walks back into the room?”

Jeeny: “We forgive. Not because they deserve it — but because we do. Forgiveness is the only way to stop being angry twice.”

Host: Her voice was gentle, yet it carried the weight of years — of battles fought in silence, of grief worn quietly. The rain outside had turned into a faint drizzle, and a cold moonlight slipped through the window, tracing soft lines on their faces.

Jack: “You really believe people can change that way?”

Jeeny: “I believe people can remember who they were before anger took them. That’s enough.”

Host: The clock ticked softly, each second like a drop of mercy. Jack stared at the quote again — its ink slightly blurred from the moisture in the air. He picked it up, folded it carefully, and tucked it into his pocket.

Jack: (quietly) “Maybe next time, I’ll think before I start the fire.”

Jeeny: “And maybe next time, I’ll remind you where the water is.”

Host: They both laughed, softly, like two souls released from the grip of something invisible. The lamp hummed faintly, its light steady now. Outside, the rain had stopped entirely, leaving behind only the reflection of the city lights trembling on the wet streets — like memories of battles finally at peace.

Host: In that small room, the storm had passed — not just the one outside, but the one between them. Reason had returned, carrying with it a quiet forgiveness that neither had asked for, yet both had needed.

And the night, once heavy with anger, exhaled.