Anger dwells only in the bosom of fools.

Host: The factory whistle had long ceased, but its echo still lingered in the air, like a ghost refusing to leave. The sky was bruised with ash and crimson, the kind of dusk that makes the world look both beautiful and tired. Inside the abandoned warehouse, the light from a single bulb swung gently, casting shadows that moved like breathing creatures across the walls.

In the center, at a rusted table, Jack sat — sleeves rolled, hands scarred, eyes cold. The smell of iron and oil clung to him like a second skin. Across from him, Jeeny leaned against a pillar, her arms folded, her expression calm, but her eyes deep with the kind of sadness that only comes from watching someone destroy themselves slowly.

Between them lay a crumpled page, a line circled in red ink:
“Anger dwells only in the bosom of fools.” — Albert Einstein.

Jack: “Einstein could say that because he lived in a world of theories, not people. He didn’t grow up where I did. Out here, anger isn’t foolishness — it’s fuel. It’s the only thing that keeps you standing when the system wants to crush you.”

Jeeny: “And what happens when that fuel burns you from the inside, Jack? When all that’s left is smoke and ashes? You think anger builds anything?”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened, his fingers tapping on the metal table — a slow, rhythmic beat, like a clock counting down to something inevitable.

Jack: “It gets things done. People don’t change because you ask them nicely. They change because they’re afraid. You think the civil rights marches, the revolutions, the strikes — all those started with calm? No. They started with rage. With people who finally said, ‘Enough.’”

Jeeny: “Yes. But those people didn’t stay in anger. They transformed it. Martin Luther King Jr., Mandela, Gandhi — they all knew that anger could ignite, but only love could lead. They used it as a spark, not as a home. That’s what Einstein meant, Jack. Anger can visit your heart — but if it dwells there, it turns you into your own enemy.”

Host: A gust of wind slipped through a cracked window, stirring the dust into ghostly swirls. The light bulb swung harder, its glow trembling across Jack’s face, showing the lines of a man who had seen too much injustice, and learned to call bitterness his friend.

Jack: “Easy for a philosopher to say that. But out here, when your boss steals your overtime, when the politicians lie to your face, when your father dies from factory fumes that no one’s held accountable for — you tell me not to be angry? You tell me to be wise?”

Jeeny: (quietly) “I’m telling you to be free. Because anger doesn’t punish them, Jack — it poisons you.”

Jack: “Then what should I do? Smile while they take everything? Forgive until there’s nothing left of me?”

Jeeny: “No. But stop feeding what you want to fight. Anger is like drinking acid and waiting for the other person to die.”

Host: The light flickered again. Jack stood, pacing — his boots echoing across the concrete floor. Jeeny’s eyes followed him, not with judgment, but with a steady patience, like someone watching a storm that has to spend itself before the sky clears.

Jack: “You know what I think? People who tell you not to be angry are the ones who’ve never had to fight. They talk about forgiveness because they’ve never had their hands dirty. It’s a privilege to preach peace when you’ve never had to bleed for it.”

Jeeny: “You think I haven’t bled? You think I don’t know what rage feels like? When my brother was beaten for being in the wrong neighborhood, I wanted to tear the world apart. But I learned something that night: anger gives you movement, not direction. It makes you run, but it doesn’t tell you where.”

Host: Jack paused, his breathing uneven, the sound of rain starting to drum softly on the roof above them. The warehouse began to smell of wet iron and dust — the scent of grit, of reality, of lives built on hard ground.

Jack: (quietly now) “So you’d rather we all just… forgive? Pretend the injustice never happened?”

Jeeny: “Forgiveness isn’t forgetting, Jack. It’s refusing to let what they did own you. The moment you let anger take root, they still control you — just through your own hatred instead of their power.”

Host: Jeeny’s words landed like stones in a still pond — the ripples of truth spreading out between them. Jack stared at her, his face hard, but the muscles in his jaw began to tremble.

Jack: “You make it sound like anger is always the enemy. But what about the anger that wakes you up? The one that says, ‘This isn’t right’? The one that makes you speak, that makes you stand up?”

Jeeny: “That’s not dwelling, Jack. That’s awakening. There’s a difference. Anger can knock on your door, but don’t let it move in. The moment you start feeding it, it starts building walls — and soon you can’t see anything outside them.”

Host: Jack’s fists loosened. His eyes softened, though his voice still carried the edge of a man who had lived too long on the borderline between righteousness and rage.

Jack: “You sound like one of those therapists on TV.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “No. I just sound like someone who’s tired of being angry. You can’t build a better world with a burning heart. It lights the way, yes — but it also consumes what it touches.”

Host: The rain grew louder, echoing through the metal roof, each drop like a drumbeat of truth. Jeeny moved closer, the light brushing her face, revealing the calm fire in her eyes.

Jeeny: “Einstein wasn’t mocking the angry; he was warning them. Wisdom can’t grow where anger lives. It’s like fire and air — one destroys, the other breathes.”

Jack: (murmuring) “So the fool isn’t the one who gets angry… it’s the one who stays there.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: A long silence followed. The kind that doesn’t ask for answers, only for breathing. Jack sat back down, his shoulders slumping, the fight leaving his body like steam escaping a cracked pipe.

Jack: “Maybe I’ve been living with fire too long. It’s the only thing that ever made me feel alive.”

Jeeny: “Then let’s find something else that does — something that doesn’t burn you.”

Host: For a moment, Jack said nothing. He just stared at the light bulb, watching it sway, its glow trembling but persistent. A small smile flickered across his face, the kind that doesn’t come from happiness, but from relief — the recognition that something deep inside has finally let go.

Jack: “Maybe Einstein was right after all. Anger is a kind of foolishness — not because it’s wrong, but because it tricks you into thinking you’re strong when you’re actually just hurt.”

Jeeny: “That’s the truest thing you’ve said tonight.”

Host: The rain softened, turning into a mist that whispered through the cracks. The light steadied. Jack and Jeeny sat in quiet, their shadows merging against the wall, as if even the darkness had decided to make peace.

Outside, the night stretched wide and gentle, its anger spent, its heart open.
And for the first time in a long while, Jack’s chest felt light — not from victory, but from the absence of war.