I know of no more disagreeable situation than to be left feeling

Host: The city was drenched in neon light and rain, a cold drizzle that painted the streets with reflections of blue, crimson, and gold. It was nearly midnight, and the air carried that heavy silence that follows a long storm — not quite peace, but a kind of uneasy pause. Inside a dimly lit bar, smoke drifted like ghosts across the ceiling. A slow jazz tune played in the background, a saxophone whispering sorrow through the haze.

Jack sat near the window, his jacket damp, his eyes hard but tired, staring into the city that refused to sleep. Jeeny sat opposite him, her hands wrapped around a cup of coffee, steam rising like a fragile hope. They hadn’t spoken for several minutes. The silence between them had its own weight, almost human.

Jeeny: “You’ve been quiet tonight, Jack. You look like you’re carrying something heavy.”

Jack: “Just thinking. Or trying to stop thinking, maybe. That’s not easy when your mind is full of... static.”

Jeeny: “Static?”

Jack: “Yeah. That restless kind of anger that doesn’t have a face. The kind you can’t throw at anyone. You just... feel it burning inside you for no reason at all.”

Host: Jeeny looked up, her eyes deep and soft, like the night reflecting a thousand small lights.

Jeeny: “That’s what Frank Moore Colby meant, I think. ‘I know of no more disagreeable situation than to be left feeling generally angry without anybody in particular to be angry at.’ It’s like your soul is on fire but there’s no one holding the match.”

Jack: “Exactly. It’s like being trapped in your own skin, knowing something’s wrong with the world, but you can’t point to where it started.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s not about the world. Maybe it’s about us.”

Host: Jack’s brow furrowed. His hands clenched around the glass of whiskey, knuckles turning white.

Jack: “You’re saying it’s personal. I say it’s systemic. The world’s a mess — corruption, greed, lies layered on lies. People are angry because they’re powerless. You can’t yell at a system, Jeeny. You can’t punch a policy.”

Jeeny: “No, but you can understand your own rage. You can decide whether it controls you or you control it. The world’s broken, yes, but the way we respond — that’s still ours.”

Jack: “Sounds like a therapist’s line.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But it’s true.”

Host: The light flickered above them. Outside, a taxi splashed through a puddle, sending ripples across the glass window. Inside, the air thickened — not with smoke now, but with tension.

Jack: “You think I don’t understand my anger? I understand it too damn well. It’s what keeps me moving. You look around — wars, inequality, billions spent on destruction. How can anyone not be angry?”

Jeeny: “Being angry at everything is the same as being angry at nothing. You drown in it.”

Jack: “Maybe drowning is better than pretending the ocean isn’t there.”

Jeeny: “But what if your anger blinds you to what’s left to love?”

Host: Jeeny’s voice cracked just slightly — a hairline fracture in the calm surface. Jack noticed, but he didn’t respond right away. He took a slow sip of his whiskey, the amber liquid catching the dim light like liquid fire.

Jack: “You talk about love like it’s some kind of cure-all. But love doesn’t stop injustice. Love doesn’t fix corruption. History is full of people who loved deeply — and died anyway.”

Jeeny: “And yet, they’re the ones who changed the world, Jack. Martin Luther King, Gandhi — even when they were furious, they turned that fury into something higher. They didn’t stay in the fog of nameless anger. They gave it a direction.”

Host: The room seemed to tighten around them. The jazz faded; only the steady rain remained. Jeeny’s eyes shimmered, not with tears, but with the stubborn light of conviction.

Jack: “Direction. Easy to say. But not everyone gets to lead a revolution. Most of us just live, work, and try not to lose our minds in the chaos.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the revolution starts there — in not letting chaos own you.”

Jack: “That sounds poetic. But tell that to the guy working three jobs and still can’t feed his kids. Tell that to the woman fired for speaking up. Sometimes anger’s all they’ve got.”

Jeeny: “Yes. But even anger has to serve something, or it poisons everything. That man, that woman — if they let the anger harden, it becomes bitterness. And bitterness doesn’t build — it only corrodes.”

Host: Jack leaned forward, his voice lowering, a deep growl softened by weariness.

Jack: “You ever felt that kind of rage, Jeeny? The kind that doesn’t go away even when you want it to?”

Jeeny: “Yes. I have. But I learned that when you stop looking for someone to blame, you can finally look inward. And that’s where the healing begins.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked, echoing like footsteps in an empty hall. Jack’s eyes drifted toward the rain, his reflection shimmering and fractured in the window.

Jack: “So what, you’re saying anger without an enemy is just... sadness?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes, yes. Sometimes it’s grief that doesn’t know its name.”

Jack: “Grief for what?”

Jeeny: “For the world we thought we’d have. For the people we lost. For the innocence we outgrew.”

Host: The words hung between them, fragile and raw. The bar seemed to breathe slower, as if listening.

Jack: “You think that’s what this is? Grief disguised as anger?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. Or maybe it’s the soul’s protest against numbness. Anger is how the heart reminds us it’s still alive.”

Jack: “But it’s exhausting.”

Jeeny: “So is feeling nothing.”

Host: Jack exhaled sharply, his breath fogging the glass. He rubbed his temples, the storm inside him quieter now, but not gone. The rain began to slow, turning into a gentle drizzle that sounded almost forgiving.

Jack: “You make it sound like a choice. Like we can just decide what to feel.”

Jeeny: “Not decide — understand. That’s all. When you understand where your anger comes from, it stops owning you.”

Jack: “And if it comes from everywhere?”

Jeeny: “Then start with where you are.”

Host: Jack let out a small laugh — not cruel, not bitter, just tired. The kind of laugh that says maybe you’re right, but I’m not there yet.

Jack: “You ever notice how the world’s full of people shouting, but no one listening? Maybe that’s why everyone’s angry. We’ve forgotten how to listen — to others, to ourselves.”

Jeeny: “Listening is a kind of love, too.”

Host: For a moment, their eyes met — his sharp and grey, hers soft and dark — and something unspoken passed between them, something fragile but real. The kind of understanding that doesn’t need words.

Jack: “You know, I used to think anger was strength. That if I stayed angry, I’d never feel weak again.”

Jeeny: “And now?”

Jack: “Now I’m starting to think it’s just another kind of prison.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe tonight is your parole.”

Host: Jack looked at her, then out at the street, where the rain had finally stopped. The city lights were cleaner, the air almost still. A homeless man crossed the street, his coat torn, but his steps steady. Somewhere in the distance, a siren faded into silence.

Jack: “Maybe we’re all angry because we care too much and can’t admit it.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. And maybe that’s not such a terrible thing — as long as we remember what the caring was for.”

Host: The camera would have pulled back now, rising slowly above the wet pavement, the two figures framed in soft light, their faces half shadow, half hope. The world outside still broken, but somehow, for one brief moment, a little less cruel.

And as the final note of jazz returned, low and weary, the night exhaled — and the anger, like the rain, finally began to fade.