Anger is a momentary madness, so control your passion or it will

Host: The night lay heavy over the city, a kind of velvet darkness stitched with faint neon and the pulse of distant sirens. A soft rain fell — slow, deliberate — tapping against the windows of an old boxing gym tucked between two warehouses. Inside, the world was lit in gold and shadow, the kind of light that makes memory feel closer than the present.

The air smelled of sweat, metal, and dust — and beneath it all, something quieter: the ghost of discipline.

Jack sat on a wooden bench, wrapping his hands with worn, fraying tape, the movements automatic, methodical. Across from him, Jeeny leaned against a punching bag, her long hair tied back, her eyes focused on him with quiet intensity.

Between them, scribbled in chalk on the blackboard near the locker room door, were the words:

"Anger is a momentary madness, so control your passion or it will control you." — G. M. Trevelyan

The words hung there, stark against the grey, like a teacher watching its own pupils.

Jeeny: (softly) “Momentary madness.” It sounds almost poetic — until you’ve seen it up close.

Jack: (snorts) Madness, yeah. That’s one way to describe it.

Jeeny: (watching him) You’ve been carrying something lately. I can tell by the way you hit the bag. You’re not training anymore. You’re exorcising.

Jack: (wrapping tighter) Maybe that’s what training is — turning rage into rhythm.

Jeeny: (steps closer) No. Training is control. Rage is chaos. They might look the same for a minute, but one builds and the other burns.

Jack: (looks up at her) Sometimes burning feels cleaner.

Host: The rain outside picked up its pace, beating harder against the roof, as though the sky itself were sparring with the earth. Jack’s breath grew heavier, the muscles in his jaw tightening.

Jeeny: (after a pause) You know what Trevelyan meant, don’t you? “Momentary madness.” It’s that instant when anger hijacks reason — when you stop reacting to the world and start reacting to your own fire.

Jack: (grinning bitterly) Maybe that’s the only honest part of us — the fire. Everything else is manners.

Jeeny: (firmly) No, Jack. It’s the other way around. Manners are what separate you from madness.

Jack: (stands, stretching his shoulders) Easy for you to say. You’re calm by nature. I’m wired for combustion.

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) Calm isn’t nature. It’s practice.

Host: The light flickered once — a hum, then steadiness. The shadows swayed across their faces, two silhouettes divided by belief and temperament.

Jack: (throws a punch into the bag — hard) You ever been so angry you feel it in your teeth? Like electricity crawling up your spine?

Jeeny: (nods slowly) Of course. Everyone has.

Jack: (hits again, harder) Then you know it feels like the only honest thing left.

Jeeny: (steps closer) It feels real because it’s easy. Every other emotion — forgiveness, patience, compassion — those take work. Anger’s cheap. You can light it without friction.

Jack: (breathing heavy) Yeah, but it’s power. For once, you get to be the one holding the fire instead of being burned by it.

Jeeny: (quietly) Until it turns in your hand.

Host: The sound of his glove hitting the bag echoed — a hollow, rhythmic percussion, each hit slightly harder than the last. The chain above creaked, and the dust of old chalk lifted into the air like a pale ghost of his past battles.

Jeeny: (softly) You think you’re fighting the world, Jack. But the world’s not your opponent. It’s your reflection.

Jack: (laughs, bitterly) What’s that supposed to mean?

Jeeny: It means every time you hit that bag, you’re not fighting what happened — you’re fighting how it made you feel. You’re punishing yourself for being wounded.

Jack: (stops, breathing hard) So what do I do with it? You can’t just… bury it.

Jeeny: No. You transform it. You let it move through you — not define you.

Jack: (grinning faintly) You sound like a monk.

Jeeny: (smiles) You sound like a man who’s still learning to put the fire down without getting burned.

Host: A small silence settled — the kind that feels earned. The rain outside slowed, its rhythm gentler now, almost musical. The bag swayed quietly, like a pendulum marking the time between rage and release.

Jack: (sits back down, rubbing his wrists) You ever lose control?

Jeeny: (after a pause) Once. And I nearly lost everything that mattered.

Jack: (looks up) What happened?

Jeeny: (takes a breath) My mother. We argued about something small — stupid, really. Years of unspoken things poured out at once. I said things that scorched her. You know that feeling — the one where your mouth outruns your mercy?

Jack: (nods slowly) Yeah.

Jeeny: (quietly) The next day, she was gone. Not dead — just done. It took years before she spoke to me again. That’s what anger cost me: years.

Jack: (looking down) I’ve lost years too. But I didn’t even notice until they were gone.

Jeeny: (softly) That’s what anger steals first — time. It turns every moment into a battlefield, even the ones that were supposed to be home.

Host: The clock on the wall ticked — loud, deliberate. Each second felt heavier than the last, the reminder of a truth neither wanted to say aloud.

Jack: (after a long silence) I used to think controlling anger meant killing it. But maybe it’s about befriending it — learning its language.

Jeeny: (smiles faintly) Exactly. Control doesn’t mean suppression. It means recognition. “Madness,” as Trevelyan said, is a flare — a warning. You listen to what it’s saying before it burns down the room.

Jack: (softly) So anger’s not the enemy.

Jeeny: No. It’s the messenger.

Host: The air in the gym had changed — lighter somehow, quieter. The rain had stopped entirely, leaving only the faint sound of the river beyond the warehouse walls. Jack’s breathing slowed, his hands unclenched.

Jeeny: (walking toward the chalkboard) Look at that quote again, Jack. “Control your passion, or it will control you.” He wasn’t telling us to silence ourselves. He was warning us to steward what’s powerful in us.

Jack: (nodding slowly) Because passion without control turns to madness.

Jeeny: Exactly. And control without passion turns to apathy. The balance — that’s the real art.

Jack: (smiling) You should write that down.

Jeeny: (grinning) I just did — in your head.

Host: The light overhead flickered once more, then steadied. The gym felt alive again — no longer haunted, just human. Jack stood, unwrapping the tape from his hands, each loop falling to the ground like a surrender of old battles.

Jack: (softly) You ever think we spend half our lives trying to master what was only meant to be managed?

Jeeny: (smiles) Maybe mastery isn’t about winning. Maybe it’s about not letting the madness choose for us.

Jack: (looking at the bag) I think I’ll stop fighting ghosts tonight.

Jeeny: (gently) Good. You’ve got enough battles with the living.

Host: She turned off the lights, leaving only the faint glow from the street outside. The gym door creaked open, letting in the smell of rain and the cool promise of night.

Jack looked back once — at the quote, still visible on the chalkboard — and smiled faintly, the kind of smile that means a person has begun to forgive himself for being human.

Host (closing):
As they stepped out into the damp air, the city shimmered — its reflections alive on wet pavement. Jack’s breath formed small clouds, but his chest felt lighter.

Behind him, the gym stood silent, holding the echo of every punch that had once been fury and was now something quieter — something almost sacred.

And in that stillness, Trevelyan’s truth lingered like a benediction:

Anger is a spark, not a sentence.
It can burn or illuminate — depending on the hand that holds it.