One of the most interesting things about the cognitive theory is

Host: The rain fell against the glass in slow, deliberate strokes — long vertical lines like thoughts dripping down the window. It was late — that sacred, quiet hour when even the city’s noise grows weary and begins to whisper. Inside a dimly lit apartment, books were scattered across the table, half-open, half-argued with. A lamp burned low, its light heavy and warm, filling the room with that melancholy amber glow only introspection knows.

Jack sat by the window, sleeves rolled up, cigarette smoke curling lazily above him. He stared out at the slick street below, where reflections of red taillights bled into puddles like wounded memories. Across from him, Jeeny sat cross-legged on the couch, a psychology book resting on her knees. Her dark hair fell like ink around her face, and her eyes carried that deep, unwavering focus that often made Jack both restless and quiet.

Jeeny: “David D. Burns once wrote, ‘One of the most interesting things about the cognitive theory is the idea that anger and interpersonal conflict ultimately result from a mental con. In other words, you're telling yourself things that aren't entirely true when you're fighting with someone.’”

Jack: half-smiles without looking up “A mental con, huh? So I’m the grifter of my own misery.”

Jeeny: softly “In a way, yes. You convince yourself you’re right — even when you’re not. That’s what anger does. It edits truth.”

Jack: “Or maybe it reveals it.”

Jeeny: “Reveals, or distorts?”

Jack: turns to face her, smoke rising between them like an unspoken question “Anger’s the only honest emotion left, Jeeny. You can fake compassion, you can fake patience — but not rage. It’s too raw.”

Jeeny: shaking her head “Honesty without clarity isn’t truth, Jack. It’s just noise.”

Jack: laughs softly “Then what, I’m supposed to psychoanalyze myself mid-fight? ‘Excuse me, darling, but my prefrontal cortex is currently misinterpreting your tone?’”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “You don’t have to use the jargon. Just stop believing every thought you think.”

Jack: pauses, intrigued “Stop believing... every thought?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Thoughts aren’t facts. They’re stories we tell ourselves — and anger loves the dramatic ones.”

Host: The lamp light flickered slightly, caught by a gust sneaking through the window crack. The room seemed to breathe with them — expanding, contracting — a quiet rhythm between tension and understanding.

Jack leaned back, exhaling, his voice softer now, as though the subject itself demanded surrender.

Jack: “So, what — when I’m furious, it’s because I’ve conned myself into it?”

Jeeny: “You tell yourself things like, ‘They disrespected me.’ Or ‘They don’t care.’ Or ‘I shouldn’t have to deal with this.’ But none of those are pure truth. They’re half-truths wrapped in ego.”

Jack: grinning faintly “Ego — the world’s most convincing salesman.”

Jeeny: nodding “Exactly. It sells pain as justice.”

Jack: quietly “And I’ve been a loyal customer.”

Jeeny: “Haven’t we all?”

Host: The rain picked up, tapping faster now, a subtle percussion to their confessions. Jeeny leaned forward, elbows on her knees, eyes burning with that gentle insistence she always carried when the conversation tilted toward soul-work.

Jeeny: “You know, cognitive theory says anger is usually a secondary emotion — a mask for hurt, fear, or shame.”

Jack: raising an eyebrow “So when I’m yelling, I’m actually crying?”

Jeeny: smiles faintly “Sometimes. You just learned to translate it into something louder.”

Jack: grinning “And more masculine.”

Jeeny: with a hint of sadness “Yes. Because vulnerability terrifies us more than rage.”

Jack: voice dropping, almost a whisper “Maybe because rage gets applause. Vulnerability just gets silence.”

Jeeny: “Silence isn’t absence, Jack. It’s the space where truth can finally speak.”

Host: The sound of the city outside softened, swallowed by the storm. The only light now was from the lamp and the glowing tip of Jack’s cigarette. The air felt thicker — charged with reflection, but not regret.

Jack stubbed out the cigarette and leaned forward, elbows on the table, the kind of posture that comes before confession.

Jack: “You ever think about how many fights we’ve had — not with people, but with our own reflections?”

Jeeny: nods slowly “Every day. We argue with our imagined versions of others — the one who betrayed us, disappointed us, misunderstood us. We fight with ghosts wearing real faces.”

Jack: thoughtful “So maybe conflict isn’t between two people. It’s between two illusions.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. You’re not fighting them — you’re fighting your story about them.”

Jack: after a pause “That’s terrifying.”

Jeeny: “It’s freeing. It means peace is closer than you think. You just have to rewrite the script.”

Jack: “And how do you do that?”

Jeeny: “By catching yourself in the act of fiction.”

Jack: half-smiles “The brain’s a novelist with bad ethics.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s a novelist with good intentions — but it forgets it’s writing fiction.”

Host: The thunder rumbled in the distance, low and rolling, like the sound of the world turning inward. Jeeny closed her book, resting her hands on the cover, and looked at Jack — her gaze steady, unblinking.

Jeeny: “You’ve always been quick to defend yourself. But sometimes, defending yourself means you’re attacking someone who never actually hurt you.”

Jack: quietly “Because I needed them to be the villain.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. We all do, sometimes. Villains make our pain make sense.”

Jack: “But they also keep it alive.”

Jeeny: “Yes.”

Jack: after a long pause “So anger’s a story — one that refuses to end.”

Jeeny: “Until you tell a truer one.”

Host: The lamp light dimmed a little further, the storm outside steadying into rhythm. The air felt softer now — not resolved, but open.

Jack looked down at the table, tracing the wood grain with his fingers as if it were a map out of his own mind.

Jack: “You ever try to catch yourself mid-anger?”

Jeeny: “Yes. It’s like waking up in a dream you built yourself. Everything’s exaggerated — every insult louder, every wound deeper — until you realize it’s all projection.”

Jack: “And what do you do then?”

Jeeny: “You breathe. You remind yourself that you’re not your thoughts. You’re the one who hears them.”

Jack: softly, almost reverently “You make it sound simple.”

Jeeny: “It’s not simple. It’s sacred.”

Host: The rain slowed, turning from rhythm to drizzle — like a heart calming after confession. The lamp flickered once, then steadied. Jack stood, walked to the window, and opened it slightly. The cool air rushed in, carrying the scent of wet pavement and renewal.

He turned back toward Jeeny, eyes softer, voice lower.

Jack: “So maybe anger isn’t evil. Maybe it’s just lost.”

Jeeny: nodding slowly “Lost truth, trying to find its way home.”

Jack: “And when it does?”

Jeeny: “It turns into understanding.”

Jack: after a pause “And forgiveness?”

Jeeny: smiles “That’s what happens when the story ends.”

Host: The storm faded completely now, leaving only the faint drip of water from the roof. The city’s heartbeat returned — steady, distant, alive.

And in that still apartment — two people sat, wordless but awake, surrounded by the quiet aftermath of insight.

David D. Burns’ words echoed softly in the silence between them, like a gentle truth whispering through the rain:

Anger is not always against others.
Sometimes, it’s a misdirected plea for understanding.
A trick the mind plays —
to protect what it believes,
even at the cost of peace.

When we stop arguing with our thoughts,
we stop needing enemies.

And in that realization,
the world — and every fight within it —
becomes suddenly,
beautifully,
quiet.