I've never been shown how to get rid of my anger. I think I do it

Host: The subway trembled beneath the city, rattling the dust loose from concrete ceilings and fluorescent lights that hummed like nervous thoughts. The hour was late, that strange twilight when night and morning blur into one another. In a corner of the empty station, Jack sat on a bench, head bowed, hands clasped, a half-burnt cigarette between his fingers. Jeeny stood near a graffiti-smeared wall, staring at a poster peeling from rusted metal, her shadow long and trembling in the flickering light.

Jack: “You ever think about how anger keeps a man alive, Jeeny? Like Tricky said—he was never shown how to get rid of his anger, so he poured it into his music. That’s the only honest therapy left in this world.”

Jeeny: “It’s honest, maybe. But not healing, Jack. You can’t just bury your rage under rhythm and beats and call it redemption. It’s still there, just echoing in a different frequency.”

Host: The train roared, passing, a rush of wind scattering the ash from Jack’s cigarette. He watched it disappear into the dark, like a thought too heavy to keep.

Jack: “Better than pretending it doesn’t exist. You know what happens to people who swallow their anger, right? They smile too much. They apologize for everything. Then one day, they explode—and no one even recognizes them. At least when I burn, I know I’m still human.”

Jeeny: “That’s the illusion, Jack. You think rage is proof of being alive, but it’s just pain wearing a mask. When you say you burn, what you mean is you’re still bleeding.”

Host: Silence settled, thick and humid, like breath in a sealed room. The station clock ticked, its second hand jerking forward like a nervous pulse.

Jack: “You talk like you’ve never been angry.”

Jeeny: “I’ve been furious. So much that it scared me. But I learned that anger is a child—it wants to be seen, not fed. You keep feeding it, it grows teeth. It starts biting the hands that try to hold you.”

Jack: “That’s poetic, Jeeny, but in the real world, people don’t get the luxury of breathing exercises and self-help mantras. Some of us just need to scream. To break something. To turn pain into sound.”

Jeeny: “And what happens after the sound fades? After the crowd claps, after the beat stops? You still have to face yourself. Music can carry the anger, but it can’t transform it unless you let go.”

Host: Jack’s eyes flicked up—cold, sharp, reflecting the fluorescent glare like steel catching firelight.

Jack: “Why should I let go? It’s the only thing that reminds me I care. You strip a man of his anger, you make him numb. Anger is love that’s been betrayed. It’s the proof something mattered.”

Jeeny: “That’s where you’re wrong. Anger isn’t love, it’s grief—the echo of what love couldn’t fix. You can’t heal a wound by staring at it, Jack. You have to touch it. Music is beautiful, but it can also be a shield. You play it to drown your heart.”

Host: The train returned, slowing, its metal shriek piercing the air. The doors opened, nobody stepped out, nobody stepped in. The city breathed, a lonely rhythm of machines and memory.

Jack: “You think Tricky was hiding behind his music? He came from pain, Jeeny. Violence, loss, streets that didn’t forgive. He didn’t have a therapist; he had a microphone. That was his confession booth. Without it, he’d have destroyed himself.”

Jeeny: “I don’t deny that. But when your art becomes your only way to survive, you stop living outside it. You start bleeding only when the recording light is on. That’s not freedom, Jack. That’s a different prison.”

Host: The echo of the train’s wheels faded, leaving only the low hum of electricity and the distant drip of water from some leak in the ceiling. Jack exhaled, the smoke twisting into a thin ghost above his head.

Jack: “You ever feel it, Jeeny? That rush—the moment your anger becomes art? It’s like alchemy. You take poison, and somehow it turns into gold. It’s the only miracle I still believe in.”

Jeeny: “That’s not alchemy, Jack. That’s survival. It’s beautiful, but it’s still a reaction, not a transformation. The gold you think you’re making still has ashes mixed in it.”

Jack: “Then what’s the alternative? Meditate it away? Pray it into silence?”

Jeeny: “No. Understand it. Speak to it. Ask what it’s trying to protect. Because underneath every rage, there’s a wound that still hurts to touch. You can’t write your way out of it until you’ve forgiven yourself.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice softened, the edges of her words like wind moving through paper. The station’s lights steadied, their flicker calming, as if even the electricity had decided to listen.

Jack: “Forgiveness. Easy word, hard practice. Some of us don’t want to be healed, Jeeny. We just want to be heard.”

Jeeny: “Then let your music do that. But don’t mistake being heard for being free. They’re not the same.”

Host: Jack’s hand trembled, his cigarette dimming, a small ember dying in the cold air. His eyes grew softer, but his voice remained low, rough.

Jack: “You ever wonder what would happen if we lost our anger completely? The revolutions, the songs, the poetry—they all start from it. Without anger, there’s no change.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But change born of anger often leaves ruins behind. Real change—the kind that heals—comes from understanding, not explosion. Anger is the spark, but it can’t be the flame forever.”

Host: A small breeze rolled through the station, stirring the trash by their feet. Somewhere above, a distant siren wailed, fading into the night.

Jack: “You know, when I was younger, I used to write lyrics after every fight I had. My mother would say, ‘At least you’re not breaking things anymore.’ But maybe I was still breaking something—just inside.”

Jeeny: “That’s what I mean, Jack. You weren’t releasing your anger—you were rearranging it. Turning it into art doesn’t make it vanish. It just makes it beautiful enough to ignore.”

Host: Jeeny stepped closer, the soft echo of her boots against the tiles sounding like a heartbeat. She placed her hand on Jack’s shoulder.

Jeeny: “You can still sing your pain, Jack. Just don’t live inside the song.”

Jack: “And what if the song is all I have left?”

Jeeny: “Then make it your mirror, not your home.”

Host: The final train arrived, its doors sliding open with a hiss, the interior light spilling like dawn across the platform. Jack stood, hesitant, looking at Jeeny as though the question still hung between them, too heavy to resolve.

Jeeny: “You don’t need to get rid of your anger, Jack. You just need to learn how to hold it without letting it hold you.”

Host: Jack nodded, a slow, quiet surrender. The music of a street performer floated down from above—the faint strum of a guitar, raw, imperfect, yet somehow alive.

Jack: “Maybe that’s what he meant. Maybe Tricky wasn’t saying he could escape his anger. Maybe he just found a way to make it sing instead of scream.”

Host: Jeeny smiled, the light catching her eyes like a reflection of forgiveness. The doors closed, the train moved, and as it disappeared into the dark tunnel, a soft echo of music lingered, carrying the anger, the pain, and the beauty of those who still burn—but no longer to destroy.

And above the city, the night finally breathed, like a wound that had begun, quietly, to heal.