Anger is a transient hatred; or at least very like it.

Host: The evening hung heavy over the harbor, the air thick with the smell of salt, diesel, and rain-soaked wood. The docklights flickered, casting long trembling shadows across the water, where waves slapped the hull of a moored fishing boat.

Jack sat on a rusted crate, cigarette glowing between his fingers, its smoke curling into the damp air like a ghost that refused to leave. Jeeny stood a few paces away, her coat buttoned tight, her hair whipped by the wind, eyes fixed on the dark horizon.

The storm had just passed, but its echo lingered in the sky — a restless grey, unsettled, like the residue of an argument that had no winner.

Jeeny: (quietly) “Robert South once said, ‘Anger is a transient hatred; or at least very like it.’”

Jack: (exhaling smoke) “Transient hatred… yeah, that sounds about right. Except sometimes, the damn thing doesn’t feel so transient.”

Jeeny: “That’s because people feed it, Jack. They turn a spark into a bonfire, and then call it righteousness.”

Jack: “You talk like anger’s poison. But sometimes it’s the only thing keeping you from drowning.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t toxic.”

Host: The wind picked up, carrying the cries of distant seagulls, their voices sharp against the silence between them. Jack’s cigarette burned low, the ash trembling before it fell.

Jack: “You know what hatred is? It’s focused. It’s clean. You can look it in the eye. But anger — it’s messy. It spills, it infects, it seeps into everything. It doesn’t even need a target; it just needs to exist.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s hatred without clarity — blind, impulsive, devouring. And the tragedy is that it always feels justified in the moment.”

Jack: “That’s what makes it human.”

Jeeny: “That’s what makes it dangerous.”

Host: The harbor lights flickered, reflected in the black water like splintered glass. The wind whistled through the ropes and masts, and a bell buoy clanged in the distance — slow, rhythmic, mournful.

Jack turned, his face half-lit by the fading glow of his cigarette, his eyes cold, but not cruel.

Jack: “Tell me, Jeeny, haven’t you ever felt anger so real it felt like truth? The kind that burns everything false away — the kind that makes you feel alive?”

Jeeny: (her voice steady) “Yes. And it scared me. Because in that moment, I wasn’t fighting for what was right — I was fighting for the feeling of being right. That’s how anger turns into hatred.”

Jack: (pausing) “You make it sound like emotion’s the enemy.”

Jeeny: “No. Anger’s not the enemy, Jack. But it’s not a friend either. It’s a visitor — and if you let it stay too long, it starts rearranging the furniture.”

Jack: (smirking faintly) “That’s poetic. And naïve.”

Jeeny: “Why naïve?”

Jack: “Because sometimes the only way to change the world is to let the fire burn. Look at history. Every revolution, every rebellion — fueled by anger. Without it, we’d still be bowing to kings.”

Host: Lightning flashed, far off, a silent echo of the storm fading beyond the bay. The sea shimmered briefly, then darkened again. Jeeny’s breath showed in the cold, visible, fragile.

Jeeny: “Yes, revolutions begin with anger — but they end with hatred. That’s the pattern, Jack. France burned its monarchy, then devoured itself. Anger freed them, hatred enslaved them again.”

Jack: “You can’t blame the fire for what people do with the ashes.”

Jeeny: “But we can choose what we set on fire.”

Jack: “You’re assuming choice exists in that moment. It doesn’t. When you’re angry, the world narrows. You stop thinking, start reacting. That’s when it owns you.”

Jeeny: “That’s when you mistake it for strength.”

Host: A ship horn bellowed across the harbor, its sound low and heavy, rolling through the fog. The rain began again — soft at first, then steady, pattering against metal, water, skin.

Jack: “You ever wonder why anger feels so good? It’s the one emotion that makes you feel certain. You can’t be angry and doubtful at the same time. It’s clarity — violent, temporary clarity.”

Jeeny: “Because it simplifies. It strips the world down to good and bad, us and them, me and you. It’s a counterfeit truth — easy, intoxicating, but empty.”

Jack: “So what do you do instead? Sit calm while the world spits in your face?”

Jeeny: “No. You feel it. You let it speak — but you don’t let it decide. Anger should pass through you, not live in you.”

Jack: “And if it doesn’t pass?”

Jeeny: “Then it becomes hatred. And hatred is just anger that forgot how to leave.”

Host: Jeeny’s hair clung to her cheeks, wet with rain, but her eyes burned steady. Jack looked away, fingers tightening on his cigarette, breathing smoke and rain together. The dock light above them flickered, then held steady — a small, stubborn brightness against the dark water.

Jack: “You talk like you’ve seen it up close.”

Jeeny: (quietly) “I have. My brother — after my mother died — he turned every grief into rage. He said anger gave him purpose. It gave him power. But it also gave him distance. From everyone. From himself. By the time he realized it, there was no one left to hear him.”

Jack: “And you think calm would’ve saved him?”

Jeeny: “No. Compassion would have. For himself. That’s the only antidote to hatred — not peace, not silence, but understanding.”

Jack: “Understanding your enemies?”

Jeeny: “Understanding your own reflection when it starts to look like them.”

Host: The rain slowed, thinning to a mist that hung in the air, silvering everything — the crates, the ropes, the faces of both. The tide shifted, lapping quietly at the dock, like the breathing of the earth itself.

Jack dropped the cigarette, its ember hissing as it met the puddle. He watched it die, a small, silent funeral for something unspoken.

Jack: (softly) “So anger is hatred’s shadow.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe its echo — fading if you let it.”

Jack: “But without it, what drives us? What keeps us from being numb?”

Jeeny: “Compassion doesn’t make you numb, Jack. It makes you strong enough to burn without destroying.”

Jack: (looking at her) “And if hatred is the fire?”

Jeeny: “Then forgiveness is the rain.”

Host: The storm clouds parted, and the moon slid out from behind them — pale, thin, but real. It touched the surface of the water, breaking into a thousand shivering pieces.

Jeeny smiled faintly, her face illuminated, soft, resolute. Jack watched her, the lines around his eyes easing, the tension loosening, like a tide pulling back.

Jeeny: “Robert South was right — anger is a transient hatred. But that’s what saves us too. It’s transient. It means it can go.”

Jack: “If we let it.”

Jeeny: “If we’re brave enough to.”

Host: The camera would pull back now, rising above the harbor, where the boats rocked, the lights shimmered, and the two figures stood small beneath the immense sky. The rain had stopped, the world breathing again — slow, patient, forgiving.

And in that stillness, the truth remained:
that anger, though it burns, is not eternal — it is only a moment of hatred we mistake for strength.

And when it passes — if it passes — what remains is not the fire, but the choice:
to feed the flame,
or to forgive the spark.