Anger does not solve problems - anger only makes things worse. I

Host: The dawn crept slowly over the horizon, spilling pale light across the rooftops of the city. The air carried the faint scent of rain and smoke, and the world felt heavy with the kind of quiet that comes after a storm. On a small balcony overlooking the street, two figures sat side by side — Jack and Jeeny — their coffee cups still steaming, their faces marked by the shadows of an unfinished night.

Jack’s grey eyes were cold, his jaw clenched tight, the way someone holds on to anger long after the fight is over. Jeeny looked out over the city, her dark hair tangled by the wind, her voice soft but unwavering.

Host: Below them, the city began to wake — a dog barked, a car engine coughed to life, and a few early workers shuffled toward the station. The sky was streaked with thin, pink clouds — fragile, temporary, like the silence between two wounds.

Jeeny: “You’ve been quiet all morning.”

Jack: “I’m trying not to say something I’ll regret.”

Jeeny: “Then you’re already halfway to peace.”

Jack: (dryly) “Don’t quote proverbs at me, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “It’s not a proverb. It’s wisdom. Lionel Sosa once said, ‘Anger does not solve problems — anger only makes things worse. Don’t make important decisions when you’re angry.’ You should listen to that.”

Host: The wind caught the edge of her words, carrying them off the balcony like leaves. Jack stared at her, then looked down at his hands, which were shaking slightly — though from cold or rage, even he didn’t know.

Jack: “Easy to say when you’re not the one who’s been betrayed.”

Jeeny: “Everyone’s been betrayed, Jack. That’s not an excuse to burn down everything around you.”

Jack: “You think I’m overreacting? My business partner stole half of what I built — ten years of work, gone overnight. And you’re telling me not to be angry?”

Jeeny: “I’m telling you not to let your anger make your decisions for you. There’s a difference.”

Host: The sunlight sharpened now, cutting through the haze, laying bare the lines of their faces — one hardened by fury, the other softened by compassion.

Jack: “You sound like one of those self-help books you keep on your nightstand.”

Jeeny: “Those books are written by people who survived their anger. Maybe you should try reading one.”

Jack: (snorts) “Or maybe I should try being human. You talk about anger like it’s a disease. But anger is what gets things done. You think revolutions start with calm conversations? You think injustice fixes itself?”

Jeeny: “Revolutions that begin in anger often end in ashes. Look at history — look at the French Revolution. It began with fury at inequality and ended in a blood-soaked nightmare. Anger is the spark, yes — but if you don’t control it, it consumes everything.”

Jack: “So we should all just stay calm while we’re being wronged? Let people walk over us because anger makes them uncomfortable?”

Jeeny: “No. I’m saying learn to use it — not be used by it. There’s a difference between fire that warms and fire that destroys.”

Host: The balcony railing was slick with dew, catching the first gold rays of the sun. Jack’s reflection shimmered faintly in the window glass — his eyes hard, but somewhere behind them, a flicker of pain.

Jack: “You talk like anger’s a choice. It’s not. It hits you. It burns before you even know it’s there.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But what you do after the burn — that’s the choice.”

Jack: “You sound so sure.”

Jeeny: “Because I’ve lived it.”

Host: Her voice trembled, but she didn’t look away. The air between them thickened, charged with something heavier than mere argument.

Jack: (quietly) “What do you mean?”

Jeeny: “My brother. You remember him, don’t you? The one who left home after that fight with my father?”

Jack: “Yeah. You told me he never came back.”

Jeeny: “He didn’t. My father died before they spoke again. My brother carried that anger like a medal — said he’d never forgive him. For years, it kept him alive. But when I saw him last… it was killing him from the inside. He used to say, ‘I was right.’ But you know what? Being right didn’t keep him warm at night.”

Host: A gust of wind lifted a stray paper napkin from the table, sending it tumbling over the railing. It fluttered down, pale and trembling, before vanishing into the street below.

Jack: “So that’s it then? Just let it go? Pretend nothing happened?”

Jeeny: “No. Forgiveness isn’t forgetting. It’s refusing to let someone else’s poison live in you. Anger solves nothing — it only extends the wound.”

Jack: (sharply) “That sounds naïve. If no one got angry, nothing would ever change.”

Jeeny: “You confuse anger with courage. Courage acts with purpose. Anger acts without thought.”

Host: Jack rose from his chair, pacing the narrow balcony. His shadow fell long against the wall, stretching like a restless animal trapped in a small cage.

Jack: “When I confronted him — my partner — I wanted to break him. I imagined his face when he realized I’d destroy what he stole. That’s what kept me awake.”

Jeeny: “And did it help?”

Jack: “For a moment. Then I felt… empty.”

Jeeny: “That’s because revenge feels like relief — until it doesn’t.”

Host: The city had fully woken now. The hum of traffic, the clatter of bicycles, the distant voices of vendors drifted up to the balcony. Life went on, indifferent to their turmoil.

Jack: “You make it sound easy to control something that eats you alive.”

Jeeny: “It’s not easy. It’s human. Even the Dalai Lama admits he feels anger. But he pauses — he breathes — he waits before speaking. That’s the difference. It’s not suppression, Jack. It’s mastery.”

Jack: (after a pause) “So you’d just sit there, breathe, and wait while someone takes everything from you?”

Jeeny: “I’d wait until I could see clearly. You can’t fight smart when your eyes are full of fire.”

Host: A bird landed on the railing, cocked its head, and then flew off again — a brief flicker of motion between stillness and flight. Jack watched it, his expression softening.

Jack: “Maybe I’m not built for that kind of patience.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s exactly why you need it.”

Host: The light warmed now, turning the balcony’s edge to gold. The steam from their coffee had faded, leaving only the faint aroma of something that once comforted. Jack stopped pacing and leaned against the railing, his shoulders heavy.

Jack: “You know, there’s this story about General Ulysses Grant during the Civil War. One of his officers was furious — wanted to court-martial a soldier for insubordination. Grant told him, ‘Write the order when you’re angry. Then wait until morning to sign it.’ By morning, the officer tore it up.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Even soldiers learn patience.”

Jack: “Maybe anger isn’t the enemy. Maybe it’s just a warning — a signal that something needs fixing.”

Jeeny: “Yes. But not a compass. Don’t let it lead you — it’ll always take you back to the fire.”

Host: A silence settled between them again, not cold this time, but tired, understanding. The city hummed beneath them, alive with noise, with motion, with a thousand little angers and quiet reconciliations.

Jack: “You know, I almost sent that message last night — the one that would’ve ruined him.”

Jeeny: “But you didn’t.”

Jack: “No. I thought about what you said — about not deciding when you’re angry. So I waited.”

Jeeny: “And now?”

Jack: “Now I think… maybe it’s better to let the truth ruin him on its own.”

Jeeny: “That’s wisdom, Jack. Not surrender.”

Host: The sun rose higher, casting warm light over the balcony, the city, and the two souls who had wrestled their way toward calm. Jack’s face relaxed; Jeeny’s eyes softened. Somewhere in the distance, a church bell chimed, marking the start of another day.

Jeeny: “Anger can start wars, Jack. But only calm ever ends them.”

Jack: “And maybe calm’s the real revolution.”

Host: The camera would have pulled back, capturing the balcony from above — two small figures bathed in morning light, cups empty, hearts less burdened. The wind lifted the last of the clouds, and the city began to breathe again.

Host: In that moment, the world didn’t look healed — just slightly less wounded. And that, perhaps, was enough.