Anger is the most impotent of passions. It effects nothing it

Host: The night was thick with smoke and the distant hum of city traffic. A streetlamp flickered above the narrow alley, its weak light spilling over the wet pavement like a trembling memory. Rain had just fallen — the smell of asphalt and rust filled the air. Inside a small, nearly deserted bar, two voices were all that remained alive in the dying hum of midnight.

Jack sat hunched over a glass of whiskey, his jaw tight, eyes gleaming like flint. Across from him, Jeeny stirred the melting ice in her drink, the sound fragile, rhythmic, almost like a heartbeat under water.

Host: A radio crackled faintly in the background, whispering something about forgiveness, about time, about letting go. Outside, the city kept breathing, unaware that inside, two hearts were wrestling with Carl Sandburg’s old truth:

“Anger is the most impotent of passions. It effects nothing it goes about, and hurts the one who is possessed by it more than the one against whom it is directed.”

Jack: “Impotent, huh?” he muttered, staring into his glass. “That’s a poetic way of saying anger’s useless. But tell that to a man who’s been wronged. Tell it to someone who’s been cheated, betrayed, lied to.”

Jeeny: “And what would you tell them, Jack? To hold on to it? To let it rot them from the inside?”

Jack: “No. I’d tell them anger is fuel. It moves things. Revolutions weren’t started by calm conversations.”

Jeeny: “Revolutions might have begun with anger, but they were sustained by hope. Look at Gandhi. He faced injustice with peace. His anger didn’t control him — it became discipline.”

Host: The bar’s neon sign blinked through the window, washing her face in red and blue light — half fire, half ocean. She looked small, but her voice held the kind of calm that can make a storm sit down and listen.

Jack: “Gandhi’s the exception, not the rule. Most people aren’t saints. You suppress anger long enough, it explodes. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but someday. And when it does — it changes something.”

Jeeny: “It destroys something, too.”

Jack: “Sometimes destruction is necessary.”

Jeeny: “And sometimes it’s just self-immolation dressed up as justice.”

Host: Jack’s hand slammed lightly against the table, rattling his glass. His eyes burned with something ancient — rage mixed with regret.

Jack: “Don’t talk to me about self-destruction. You think I don’t know what that feels like? I’ve lived it.”

Jeeny: “Then you should understand it better than anyone. Anger doesn’t avenge you, Jack. It imprisons you.”

Jack: “Easy for you to say. You haven’t had your career stolen by someone you trusted. You haven’t watched years of your work paraded under someone else’s name.”

Jeeny: “You’re right, I haven’t. But I’ve watched people destroy themselves over less. My father —”

Host: She paused, her fingers trembling around the rim of her glass. The rain outside began again, tapping the window softly, like fingers trying to remind her to breathe.

Jeeny: “My father was a kind man. But when his brother cheated him out of his company, he couldn’t let it go. Every dinner, every morning, every conversation — it became about that betrayal. He thought his anger was justice. But by the end, it was the only thing he had left. It killed him from the inside long before his heart gave out.”

Jack: “So what — we’re supposed to just forgive everything? Pretend the world isn’t cruel?”

Jeeny: “No. We acknowledge it. But we choose not to let cruelty define us. Anger can ignite, but it can’t heal.”

Host: The music from the radio shifted — a soft jazz tune, distant and haunting. The bartender wiped down the counter, pretending not to listen, though his eyes lingered on the pair — two strangers bound by the invisible thread of shared pain.

Jack: “You make it sound easy, Jeeny. Like peace is a switch you can flip.”

Jeeny: “It’s not easy. It’s the hardest thing. But anger doesn’t make you strong — it just convinces you you’re right.”

Jack: “Sometimes being right is all you’ve got.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Being whole is what matters. Being right is a moment. Being whole is a life.”

Host: The words hung between them like smoke — visible, then fading. Jack exhaled slowly, his shoulders softening as if the air itself had grown heavier.

Jack: “You know what’s funny? I thought if I stayed angry, I’d stay connected to it — to the truth of what happened. But it’s like holding a coal to burn someone else. The longer I hold it, the deeper it burns me.”

Jeeny: “That’s exactly what Sandburg meant. Anger promises power but delivers pain. It makes us believe we’re acting, when really, we’re decaying.”

Jack: (quietly) “Then why does it feel so good sometimes? That rush — that heat — it’s like being alive again.”

Jeeny: “Because it’s easy. Feeling powerful, even falsely, is easier than feeling broken.”

Host: The light caught her eyes, and for a moment, they looked like mirrors reflecting everything he had tried to bury. He looked away first.

Jack: “So what’s the cure, then? What do we do with the fire?”

Jeeny: “You don’t kill it. You redirect it. Anger can illuminate if you use it to understand, not to wound.”

Jack: “And if you can’t?”

Jeeny: “Then you forgive yourself for being human. That’s where healing starts.”

Host: Jack leaned back, his chair creaking, the sound breaking through the thick silence. He rubbed his temples, the whiskey untouched now, his reflection wavering in the liquid.

Jack: “You sound like my therapist.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Then maybe she’s right.”

Jack: “She said anger’s like quicksand — the harder you fight, the deeper you sink.”

Jeeny: “Smart woman.”

Host: The bar grew quieter. Even the rain seemed to pause. Jack looked at Jeeny for a long moment — his expression less guarded now, his voice barely above a whisper.

Jack: “I thought anger made me sharp. Gave me an edge. But lately, it’s just made everything dull. Even joy.”

Jeeny: “That’s because anger narrows your world. You stop seeing color. Everything turns into the shade of what hurt you.”

Jack: “And what color is forgiveness then?”

Jeeny: “Light. Not blinding. Just enough to see your way out.”

Host: Her words landed softly, like snow on coals. The clock above the bar ticked, its hands slow but certain.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny… maybe you’re right. Anger didn’t fix anything. I thought it made me strong, but really, it just kept me from feeling weak.”

Jeeny: “And maybe real strength is admitting you already survived the thing that made you angry.”

Host: The rain outside turned to mist. The neon sign blinked one last time before going dark, leaving only the pale glow of streetlight spilling across their faces.

Jack: “Carl Sandburg… he must’ve known what it meant to be consumed.”

Jeeny: “He did. But he also knew that to write, to create, to live — you have to keep your fire, not let it keep you.”

Jack: “Maybe anger’s just love that’s been wounded too long.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But even wounded love deserves to heal.”

Host: Jack’s hand trembled slightly as he lifted his glass, not to drink, but to watch the way the light refracted through it — fractured, but still shining.

Jack: “So, Jeeny, if anger is impotence, then forgiveness…?”

Jeeny: “Forgiveness is rebirth.”

Host: And there it was — not a grand revelation, but something quieter, truer. Two souls sitting in the afterglow of rage, finally seeing the horizon beyond it.

Outside, the rain stopped completely. The streetlamp steadied, burning clean and clear. Jeeny stood, her coat brushing his shoulder as she passed.

Jeeny: “Let it go, Jack. Whatever it is, let it go. You’ve already survived it — don’t let it live rent-free inside you.”

Host: He watched her walk into the soft fog, her figure fading like a memory making peace with itself. The bar fell into silence, except for the faint echo of the radio, whispering an old song about peace.

Jack sat still for a long moment, then smiled — not from happiness, but from release.

Host: And as he finally stepped outside, the air was cold, clean, new — the kind that only comes after a storm that’s burned itself out.