I have a very high frequency of anger, and a very high frequency

Host: The rain had not yet fallen, but the air was thick with the smell of it — iron, ozone, and waiting. The sky over Harlem was the color of bruised stone, and from the window of a third-floor apartment, the city lights bled into the room in long, trembling lines.

Inside, a record spun on an old turntable, the needle scratching faintly between notes — Billie Holiday, soft and aching. Jack sat on the edge of a worn leather couch, his hands clasped, his grey eyes fixed on the floor. Jeeny leaned against the windowsill, her hair catching the streetlight like a dark flame.

Neither spoke for a while. The music did.

Jack: (quietly) “‘I have a very high frequency of anger, and a very high frequency of sadness.’”
He recited the quote as if it had escaped from somewhere inside him. “Jonathan Majors said that. And I get it. Maybe too much.”

Host: His voice was low, almost a confession. The record crackled, and the rain finally broke — soft at first, then steady, like a thousand tiny apologies against the glass.

Jeeny: “You sound like you’ve been carrying that line for a while.”

Jack: “I have. Because it’s the most honest thing I’ve heard in a long time. Everyone’s obsessed with being balanced, serene, mindful. But Majors said it out loud — that he feels too much. Too often. Maybe that’s not brokenness. Maybe that’s being alive.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe it’s being at war with yourself.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes were soft, but her words cut clean. She crossed her arms, her reflection flickering against the window like a ghost.

Jeeny: “High frequencies of anger and sadness — that’s not a gift, Jack. That’s exhaustion. It burns you from the inside. It turns every silence into a scream you can’t hear.”

Jack: “Or it turns you into an artist. A fighter. Someone who feels enough to move mountains instead of meditating beside them. You think change comes from peace? No. Change comes from discomfort — from people who can’t stop feeling.”

Host: The lightning flashed, white and sudden, painting their faces in brief, violent light. For a moment, Jack looked like a man on the verge — not of rage, but of understanding something too heavy to name.

Jeeny: “And how long do you think that lasts before it kills you, Jack? You keep defending anger like it’s a virtue. But tell me — what has it ever built that didn’t collapse?”

Jack: “Revolutions. Art. Survival.”

Jeeny: “And also ruins. Wars. Loneliness.”

Host: The music shifted — a slower track now, Billie’s voice trembling under the needle’s hiss. The rain was heavier, smearing the city into shadows.

Jack: “You know what sadness does, Jeeny? It keeps you human. It’s the last thing that tells you the world still matters. I look around and see people smiling through apathy — numb to everything. I’d rather drown in emotion than rot in indifference.”

Jeeny: “But drowning isn’t living, Jack. Feeling deeply is beautiful, but you can’t breathe underwater. You can’t build a life from the wreckage of every storm that hits you.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice had softened now — less challenge, more care. Jack looked up at her, his eyes tired but alive, like a man who had walked too far into the rain and didn’t know how to turn back.

Jack: “Then what do you do, Jeeny? Pretend the storm’s not there? You feel too little and they call you cold. Feel too much and they call you unstable. What’s left?”

Jeeny: “Balance, Jack. Not suppression — balance. You let the anger teach you, but you don’t let it lead you. You let sadness visit, but you don’t let it stay.”

Host: The rain pattered harder, dancing against the window, the sound almost musical. A streetlight outside flickered, its glow pulsing with the rhythm of their voices.

Jack: “You talk like that’s easy. Like you can just tune your heart like a radio. But some of us don’t have a volume knob, Jeeny. Some of us just… feel everything, all the time. It’s chaos, but it’s honest.”

Jeeny: “And honesty without mercy becomes cruelty — especially to yourself.”

Host: The light in the room was now only the lamp beside the record player, its shade tilted, casting a warm cone of gold that made the space feel like a confession booth.

Jack: “You think Majors said that because he’s proud of it? I think he said it because he was warning himself. Anger and sadness — they give you power, sure. But they also take pieces of you every time you use them.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Every frequency burns through energy. You keep vibrating at that pitch and you’ll burn out. The question isn’t how much you feel, Jack — it’s what you do with what you feel.”

Host: A pause — the kind that fills a room like a third presence. Then Jack stood, walking to the window, looking out over the rain-soaked streets below.

Jack: “You know, there’s this story — Beethoven used to press his ear to the piano just to feel the vibrations after he went deaf. That’s what I think of when I hear Majors’ quote. That’s what feeling too much is like. You stop hearing life the way others do, but you still want to feel its pulse. Even if it hurts.”

Jeeny: “That’s… beautiful. But also tragic.”

Jack: “Maybe tragedy’s just beauty that stayed too long.”

Host: The thunder rolled, deep and distant. The rain blurred the window, melting the city lights into liquid gold. Jeeny watched him — the lines of his face, the tension in his shoulders, the quiet grief that lived just behind his eyes.

Jeeny: “Maybe what Majors meant wasn’t about pain, Jack. Maybe it was about capacity. Some people have a higher emotional voltage — they carry more current than others. That doesn’t make them broken. It makes them powerful — if they learn how to ground themselves.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “Grounding. Yeah. Tell that to a storm.”

Jeeny: “Even a storm finds the earth eventually.”

Host: The record ended, the needle clicking at the center. Neither of them moved to stop it. The room was full of silence, but it wasn’t empty anymore.

Jack: “You know, maybe that’s the point — to feel everything, but not be owned by it. Maybe that’s what Majors was trying to figure out — how to be both the lightning and the ground.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. To be the storm and the shelter at the same time. That’s what strength really is.”

Host: The rain began to slow, the drops more gentle, the air lighter. Outside, a car horn echoed, distant and fading, like the world reminding them it was still there.

Jack: “So maybe there’s nothing wrong with feeling too much — as long as you don’t stop there.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Feel deeply. But then create. Forgive. Transform. That’s the frequency that heals.”

Host: The camera of the moment pulls back — the apartment, the city, the rain-slicked streets below. The window glows, two silhouettes inside, still talking, still learning how to be human without losing their fire.

And somewhere beneath the rhythm of the receding rain, Jonathan Majors’ words still hum like electricity in the dark —
a reminder that to feel too much is not a curse,
but a voltage —
one that can burn or illuminate,
depending on how gently we learn to hold the current.