Get mad, then get over it.

Host: The night was thick with rain, each drop a silver blade cutting through the neon glow of the city. The streetlights flickered like tired souls, and the café window pulsed with the reflections of passing cars. Inside, the air smelled of coffee, old wood, and the faint melancholy of midnight conversations.

Jack sat by the window, his hands wrapped around a mug that had long gone cold. His eyes, sharp and distant, followed the rain as if tracing the shape of his own restlessness. Across from him, Jeeny leaned forward, her hair falling over her shoulder, her face lit softly by the candlelight. She was calm, but her eyes carried that fire — the kind that burns not from anger, but from belief.

Jeeny: “You ever heard what Colin Powell said? ‘Get mad, then get over it.’”

Jack: “Yeah.” He smirked faintly. “Sounds like something you’d see on a motivational poster in some office lobby. Simple. Neat. Unrealistic.”

Jeeny: “Unrealistic?” She raised an eyebrow. “You don’t think it’s possible to feel anger, to let it burn, and then to let it go?”

Jack: “Possible, maybe. But not natural. People don’t just get over things, Jeeny. Not when betrayal, injustice, or loss are involved. That’s not how the human mind works. We hold on. It’s what makes us human.”

Host: The rain outside thickened, hammering against the glass. A waitress passed by, the clink of ceramic plates breaking the tension for a moment. Jack’s jaw tightened, his fingers tapping against the table like a metronome counting down to an unseen explosion.

Jeeny: “But isn’t that the problem, Jack? Holding on? That’s what poisons us. Anger is supposed to pass through — not stay. Powell led men into war, faced death, and still said those words. Maybe he understood something most of us refuse to.”

Jack: “He also lived in a world of command, discipline, and control. A soldier doesn’t have the luxury of staying angry — he has to function. But that’s not peace, Jeeny. That’s suppression. You push it down, you bury it deep, and someday, it eats through you.”

Host: A brief silence followed, heavy and intimate. The clock on the wall ticked louder than before. The rain had slowed to a whisper, like the city itself was listening.

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It’s not about suppression. It’s about transformation. You feel the fire, but you don’t let it consume the house. Anger can be a teacher, not just a weapon. Powell didn’t say ‘don’t get mad’ — he said ‘get mad, then get over it.’ The first part is the lesson. The second is the wisdom.”

Jack: “You talk like anger’s some kind of poetic visitor. But for most people, it’s not that romantic. It’s messy. It’s raw. It wrecks marriages, friendships, even nations. Look at history — the Cold War, the Middle East, the streets of our own cities. People don’t get mad and get over it. They get mad and stay mad — and that’s what keeps the world spinning in circles.”

Host: Jeeny leaned back, her eyes searching Jack’s like a mirror of compassion and defiance. Her hands trembled slightly, not from fear, but from the weight of what she was about to say.

Jeeny: “And yet, Jack, the moments humanity moved forward — they came when someone did get over it. When Nelson Mandela walked out of prison and chose forgiveness instead of revenge. When Martin Luther King Jr. preached peace instead of retaliation. When Germany and France reconciled after a century of blood. Don’t tell me getting over anger isn’t human. It’s the most human thing there is.”

Jack: He looked away, exhaling slowly. “You pick saints, Jeeny. Heroes. The exceptions. The rest of us — we’re just trying to survive. You ever been betrayed by someone you trusted? You ever looked at a person and realized you’ll never see them the same again? Try telling your heart to ‘get over it.’ It doesn’t listen.”

Host: The flame of the candle flickered between them, its light stretching and shrinking like the breathing of the conversation itself. Outside, a car horn blared, distant but sharp. The night pressed in.

Jeeny: “Yes, I have, Jack. I’ve been betrayed. I’ve lost people. I’ve been angry enough to want to burn everything. But then I realized — anger doesn’t punish the person who hurt you. It punishes you. It chains you to what broke you.”

Jack: His voice hardened. “Maybe that’s the price of feeling deeply.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. That’s the price of refusing to heal.”

Host: The words hung between them like smoke. Jack’s eyes softened, the edge in his voice dimming. The weight of Jeeny’s truth sank into him, though he fought it. He leaned forward, his hands clasped, his voice low.

Jack: “You make it sound easy. Like anger’s a coat you just take off when it’s inconvenient. But it’s not that simple. Anger is energy. It’s what drives revolutions, what forces change. Without anger, the world would still be asleep.”

Jeeny: “Yes,” she nodded, “but every revolution that lasted began with anger — and ended with forgiveness. The American civil rights movement, India’s independence, even Powell’s own leadership — they used anger as fuel, not as a home. That’s the difference.”

Host: Jack’s brow furrowed, his grey eyes catching the dim light. The lines around his mouth deepened, carved by years of holding back what he refused to name.

Jack: “You think forgiveness fixes everything?”

Jeeny: “No. But it frees you to try again. Anger might build the wall — forgiveness tears a door into it.”

Host: A gust of wind rattled the window, scattering a few napkins across the floor. Jack reached down, picking one up, smoothing it out absentmindedly. His movements were slower now, almost tender.

Jack: “I guess… maybe Powell meant something else. Not just letting go of anger — but mastering it. Knowing when to stop letting it steer.”

Jeeny: Smiling softly. “Exactly. Getting mad is human. Getting over it — that’s divine. Maybe the quote isn’t about control, but balance.”

Host: The storm outside had faded into a light drizzle. The city had quieted, its heartbeat slowing to a peaceful rhythm. In the reflection of the window, the two of them sat like shadows of their former arguments — calm, contemplative, almost reconciled.

Jack: “You know, I used to think letting go was weakness. That if you stop fighting, you lose.”

Jeeny: “And now?”

Jack: “Now I think maybe it’s the only fight worth winning.”

Host: Jeeny reached across the table, her hand resting lightly on Jack’s. The touch was small, but it broke through the silence like the first ray of sunlight after a storm. Jack didn’t pull away. His eyes, once cold and cynical, now carried a glint of humility — or perhaps, of peace.

Jeeny: “Then maybe you finally understand Powell. Get mad — because you care. Then get over it — because you’re still alive.”

Host: The clock ticked once more. Outside, the clouds began to part, revealing a faint silver moon. The rain had stopped, leaving behind a soft glow that made the streets shimmer like forgiven memories.

Jack: “You think the world will ever learn that?”

Jeeny: “One person at a time, Jack. That’s how peace begins.”

Host: The camera would pull back now, through the window, over the wet pavement, past the flickering streetlight. Two silhouettes remained inside — no longer enemies of ideology, but fellow travelers of pain and truth. The city hummed softly, and the night exhaled its last breath of anger, leaving only the quiet rhythm of forgiveness.