I think anger of any kind is valuable. It's all about learning

Host: The rain fell in thin, silver threads over the city, each drop hissing as it hit the steaming pavement. A dim, amber light from the streetlamps bled through the windows of a small bar tucked between two shuttered bookstores. Inside, the air was thick with cigarette smoke and the faint hum of jazz.

Jack sat at the counter, his grey eyes fixed on the glass of whiskey before him, its surface trembling as if it, too, felt the tension in the room. Jeeny stood by the window, her arms crossed, her reflection blurring in the rain.

The night was tense, but not because of the storm outside.

Jeeny: “You know what Kameron Hurley once said? ‘I think anger of any kind is valuable. It’s all about learning how to channel it. The worst thing we can do is get bored, or complacent, or worse—suppress our anger and then see it burst forth in unhealthy ways.’”

Jack: “Anger. The most overrated emotion in human history. It burns, it destroys, it clouds the mind. I’ve seen it turn men into monsters.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But I’ve also seen it turn them into heroes.”

Host: A gust of wind pushed against the window, and for a moment, the light flickered. Jeeny turned, her eyes catching Jack’s, a fire in their depths that the rain outside could not quench.

Jack: “Heroes? You call that anger? I call that delusion. Most of the time, anger is just a mask for fear or pain. People like to pretend it’s noble because it justifies their violence.”

Jeeny: “And yet, without anger, nothing ever changes. Do you think the civil rights movement happened because people were calm? Because they were polite? No, Jack — it was anger at injustice that moved them into the streets, that forced the world to listen.”

Jack: “And how many riots, how many deaths, followed that anger? You can’t just light a fire and hope it burns in the right direction.”

Jeeny: “But you can learn to control it. That’s what she meant — it’s not about rage for the sake of rage, it’s about energy. About refusing to go numb. Because that’s what’s killing us, Jack — our complacency.”

Host: The bartender turned away, pretending not to hear, as their voices rose, blending with the sound of the rain. The music softened, as if the saxophone itself held its breath.

Jack: “Complacency? No, Jeeny, it’s called control. We live in a world where everybody thinks their feelings are sacred. That’s why wars start. Because someone’s anger gets validated. You want to change the world? Try thinking, not feeling.”

Jeeny: “And what has all that thinking brought us? A world of people who scroll past suffering on their screens. Who’ve rationalized apathy. Maybe we need to feel again, even if it hurts. Because anger, when honest, is the proof that we still care.”

Jack: “Care? You think anger proves that? No. It proves we’re still selfish. Still attached to our own sense of being wronged. Every revolution starts with anger — and ends with the same people repeating the violence they once fought.”

Jeeny: “That’s only if they never learn from it. You think of anger as fire, Jack — something that burns and kills. But what if it’s also light? What if it’s the only thing that shows us the darkness we’re living in?”

Host: Jack leaned forward, his jaw tight, the muscles in his hands twitching. Jeeny’s voice had softened, but the conviction in it glowed like an ember refusing to die. The rain pounded harder, drumming against the glass like an impatient heartbeat.

Jack: “You talk like anger’s a saint. But tell me this — when’s the last time anger didn’t break something you loved?”

Jeeny: “When it saved something I loved.”

Jack: “Name one.”

Jeeny: “When my brother was in the hospital. The doctors wouldn’t listen; they dismissed his pain because it didn’t fit their charts. I yelled, Jack. I screamed. I fought. And that anger made them recheck — they found the bleed. He’s alive because I didn’t stay calm.”

Host: A pause hung between them, heavy, thick. Jack’s eyes dropped to the counter, the whiskey glass catching a sliver of neon from the sign outside — “Open Late.” The letters shimmered, as if mocking their restless souls.

Jack: “So what? You want everyone to start shouting until they get what they want?”

Jeeny: “Not shouting, Jack. Feeling. Acting from that feeling. That’s what channeling means. The same anger that destroys can also build — if you give it direction. That’s the difference between riots and revolutions.”

Jack: “And who decides that direction? You? The angry ones? You think anger listens to reason?”

Jeeny: “It can. If we listen to it first. You keep talking about anger like it’s a beast to be tamed, but maybe it’s a voice that’s been ignored too long.”

Jack: “Or a trap. The moment you let it speak, it owns you.”

Jeeny: “Only if you’re afraid of it.”

Host: The lights from the street flashed red, then blue, as a police car passed. The color washed over their faces, painting them in alternating shades of conflict — fire and ice, blood and calm.

Jack: “You really believe anger’s valuable?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because it’s truth in motion. Because when a person’s angry, they’ve finally stopped pretending.”

Jack: “Truth? No. Anger’s just the noise that covers the truth. It’s what people use when they can’t articulate their pain.”

Jeeny: “Then teach them to speak, not to silence them. Don’t you see? Suppression is what makes people explode. That’s what Hurley meant — when we bury our anger, it doesn’t die. It festers, and then it erupts, hurting everyone, including ourselves.”

Jack: “So we just let it all out? Scream into the world until the world listens?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. Or maybe we turn that scream into a song. Into art. Into action.”

Host: The rain had slowed, the rhythm of its fall now soft, almost musical. The bar had emptied, but the conversation lingered, its energy still buzzing in the air like static before a storm’s return.

Jack: “You think anger can make art?”

Jeeny: “Of course. Have you ever heard Billie Holiday’s ‘Strange Fruit’? That song was anger turned into beauty, pain turned into memory. It didn’t just express outrage — it changed the world.”

Jack: “Yeah… and it cost her everything.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what it means to feel deeply. To risk something. You, Jack — you’ve built your walls so high, you’ve forgotten what fire feels like.”

Jack: “And you’ve lived in the flames so long, you can’t tell they’re burning you.”

Host: Silence filled the space. Only the sound of a single drop of water from the ceiling falling into an empty glass.

For a moment, they were just two souls tired of being right, searching for a truth somewhere between logic and flame.

Jeeny: “Maybe the point isn’t to love or hate anger. Maybe it’s to understand it. To let it teach us what still matters.”

Jack: “And maybe to remember that not everything that matters should be shouted.”

Jeeny: “No. But everything that’s silenced eventually shouts back.”

Host: The rain finally stopped. The moonlight broke through the clouds, illuminating the wet streets below. Jeeny smiled, a small, tired smile, and Jack looked away, his eyes softer now.

The bartender switched off the neon sign, and the bar fell into darkness, except for that thin, silver light spilling from the sky — like the last quiet glow of anger that has finally found its purpose.