My heart has been heavy and I have deliberated within my own

Host: The evening sky hung low over the city, a bruised purple bleeding into the last veins of gold. The Capitol dome glowed in the distance — solemn, almost ancient, as though time itself paused to watch the modern world stumble again through the same old questions.

Inside a small office overlooking the river, the air was thick with the smell of coffee gone cold and the buzz of fluorescent lights that hummed with bureaucratic fatigue. Papers were scattered across the desk — reports, statements, fragments of truth half-buried in formal language.

Jack sat in a suit that looked borrowed from a better day, his tie loosened, grey eyes shadowed by sleepless hours. Jeeny stood by the window, her arms folded, the soft reflection of the city’s light flickering across her face. Outside, a faint drizzle traced delicate paths down the glass, like tears that refused to fall.

Jeeny: “Blanche Lincoln once said, ‘My heart has been heavy and I have deliberated within my own conscience, knowing that my decision should not come out of my initial emotion of anger toward the President for such reckless behavior, but should be based on the facts.’”

Jack: half-smiles, tired “A rare thing these days — someone admitting to feeling both anger and restraint.”

Jeeny: “She was talking about the impeachment of Clinton, wasn’t she? A moment when half the country burned with rage, and the other half with denial.”

Jack: “Yeah. A politician torn between duty and emotion. Imagine that — conscience in politics.”

Jeeny: “You sound surprised.”

Jack: “I’m skeptical. Conscience gets quieter the higher you climb.”

Host: The rain tapped harder against the window, a steady rhythm like the ticking of a moral clock. The lamp light cast long shadows, stretching across the walls, turning every movement into reflection.

Jeeny: “But she was right, Jack. Decisions made in anger always blind us. Look at the world now — people shout before they think, condemn before they listen.”

Jack: leans forward, elbows on the desk “Maybe because the facts never come fast enough. Anger’s the only truth people can feel in real time.”

Jeeny: “So emotion becomes evidence?”

Jack: “Sometimes, yeah. It’s honest. Facts can be twisted; anger can’t be faked. You feel it or you don’t.”

Jeeny: “That’s dangerous. Anger is a spark — it burns what it touches. Facts build. Anger destroys.”

Jack: grins faintly “And yet, without that spark, no one ever moves. Anger started revolutions, ended tyrannies, built nations. You think Lincoln — the president, not Blanche — freed the slaves on calm reflection? No. He was furious at injustice.”

Jeeny: quietly “Fury may open the door. But reason has to walk through it.”

Host: A long silence followed, heavy but alive. The sound of rain deepened, echoing like whispers against glass — the world murmuring its own disagreements outside.

Jeeny: “Blanche Lincoln wasn’t suppressing anger; she was taming it. There’s a difference. She understood that anger without reflection becomes vengeance — not justice.”

Jack: “And what’s wrong with vengeance, when justice sleeps?”

Jeeny: “Because vengeance makes you the thing you hate. You burn down the house to chase the thief, and when the smoke clears, all you’ve got is ash.”

Jack: leans back, eyes on ceiling “You talk like there’s purity in patience. But sometimes waiting for facts just lets the guilty rewrite them.”

Jeeny: “And rushing to judgment makes the innocent collateral. You think truth lives in speed? It lives in stillness.”

Host: The light flickered, catching the edges of Jack’s jawline, the tension in his hands, the quiet tremor in Jeeny’s voice. The world outside blurred — cars passing, lives moving — while inside, the room froze between ethics and emotion.

Jack: “You know, people like Lincoln — Blanche, I mean — they stand there pretending to be impartial, but they’re human too. Hearts heavy, consciences loud. They just hide it behind committees and votes.”

Jeeny: “That’s the point, Jack. To hold power and still pause. To let your conscience speak before your anger does. Do you know how rare that is?”

Jack: “Rare doesn’t mean right. Sometimes conscience is just cowardice dressed in moral clothes. Sometimes you have to act before you understand.”

Jeeny: “And sometimes acting too soon ruins everything you meant to save.”

Host: The rain softened, turning to a misty hush. A car horn blared distantly, then faded — like a question without answer. Jeeny moved from the window and sat across from him, her eyes steady, her voice calm but burning underneath.

Jeeny: “You’re still angry, aren’t you? About what happened last week. About the vote.”

Jack: after a pause “Yeah.”

Jeeny: “And you’re hiding behind facts.”

Jack: chuckles dryly “Better than hiding behind feelings.”

Jeeny: “No. Better would be to face both.”

Jack: looks at her “You think I don’t? Every fact I read drips with emotion. Every report feels like confession. You can’t separate them. Truth and anger are siblings — both born of pain.”

Jeeny: “Then raise them wisely. One should guide, the other should warn.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked louder now, its hands moving with merciless certainty. The world didn’t wait for moral debate. Yet in this small office, time seemed to stretch, suspended between head and heart.

Jack: “You ever wonder if she regretted it? Blanche Lincoln, I mean. Holding back her anger. Maybe it made her seem weak to both sides.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But integrity always disappoints someone. That’s how you know it’s real.”

Jack: “And what did she get for it?”

Jeeny: “Peace, maybe. The kind that comes from not betraying yourself.”

Jack: voice low “Peace doesn’t win elections.”

Jeeny: smiles sadly “No. But it wins you back your soul.”

Host: The wind brushed against the window, rattling it faintly — as if the night wanted to interrupt, to remind them that outside this small world of words, decisions still tore through lives.

Jeeny: “You once told me anger made you feel alive.”

Jack: nods “Still does.”

Jeeny: “And does truth make you feel alive too?”

Jack: “No. Truth just hurts slower.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why conscience exists — to make sure the hurt teaches something.”

Host: The lamp flickered again, throwing their shadows across the wall. Two silhouettes — one rigid, one fluid — arguing like thought and feeling caught in perpetual dance.

Jeeny reached across the desk, laying her hand lightly over his.

Jeeny: “You don’t have to kill your anger, Jack. Just don’t let it choose your weapon.”

Jack: quietly “And what if the facts never come?”

Jeeny: “Then you act — not out of rage, but resolve.”

Jack: “There’s a difference?”

Jeeny: softly “One destroys to prove it’s right. The other builds because it must.”

Host: Jack’s eyes softened, and the storm inside him — that restless fire — began to dim. He leaned back, exhaling long, like surrender disguised as thought. Outside, the drizzle had stopped. The streets gleamed under the streetlights — washed clean, at least for now.

Jack: “Maybe Blanche Lincoln had it right. Anger’s not the enemy. It’s just the fire under the forge.”

Jeeny: nods “Exactly. But you don’t live in the fire. You shape yourself by it.”

Jack: “And when the shaping’s done?”

Jeeny: “Then you walk out — not burned, but tempered.”

Host: The rainwater on the window began to dry, leaving faint trails like scars fading on glass. Jeeny rose, taking her coat from the chair, her movements slow, deliberate. Jack watched her — tired, thoughtful, quieter than before.

As she reached the door, she turned back, her silhouette framed by the city’s dim glow.

Jeeny: “You know what’s heavier than anger?”

Jack: “What?”

Jeeny: “A conscience that forgets to feel it.”

Host: She left, and the door clicked shut behind her — soft, final, echoing through the quiet room. Jack sat alone for a while, the weight of her words and Blanche Lincoln’s alike pressing against his chest.

He looked down at the files, the facts, the tidy black print that demanded logic, then out the window at the city — chaotic, human, alive.

He smiled faintly. The facts would still be there in the morning.
But tonight, for the first time in a long while, he let himself feel.

And in that silent moment, the line between anger and truth, duty and heart, blurred into something deeply, painfully human.

The camera pulls back, leaving the office dim, the desk lit like a small island in a sea of conscience —
and the faintest trace of peace hovering above the storm that had finally quieted.