One should not lose one's temper unless one is certain of getting

Host: The afternoon was hot and bright, the kind of heat that clung to the skin and refused to let go. The street outside the office buzzed with the restless noise of a city on edge — cars honking, construction clattering, a radio blaring somewhere from an open window.

Inside, the air was thick with the smell of paper, dust, and tension.

Jack stood by the window, hands clenched, jaw tight, his reflection in the glass blurred by sunlight. He’d just walked out of a meeting, one where his voice had cracked under the weight of holding back too long.

Jeeny entered quietly, a folder in hand, her steps measured, her expression calm — the calm that knows storms but refuses to become one.

For a moment, she just watched him. The muscles in his shoulders moved like coiled wires under his shirt.

Jeeny: “You want to talk about it?”

Jack: “No.”

Jeeny: “You sure? You look like a grenade waiting for an excuse.”

Jack: “I said no, Jeeny.”

Host: His voice was low, but it carried the kind of edge that cuts without volume.

Jeeny set the folder down and leaned against the desk, her arms crossed.

Jeeny: “You know, Yeats once said, ‘One should not lose one’s temper unless one is certain of getting more and more angry to the end.’ Maybe you’d like that one.”

Jack: “He was right. If you’re going to burn, burn completely. Half an anger’s just smoke.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe it’s warning.”

Jack: “Warning doesn’t change anything. People don’t listen to calm voices, Jeeny. They listen when you start shouting.”

Jeeny: “They listen, maybe — but they stop hearing.”

Host: The light from the window fell across their faces, one side bright, one side shadowed — as if the sun itself was undecided whose side it was on.

Jack: “You think anger’s a flaw, don’t you?”

Jeeny: “I think anger’s like fire. Beautiful, but it burns everything it touches if you don’t know what you’re doing.”

Jack: “Sometimes burning is the only way to get noticed.”

Jeeny: “And when the fire’s out, what’s left? Ashes and apologies?”

Jack: “At least ashes mean something used to live there.”

Host: The silence that followed was sharp enough to be a sound. The clock ticked on the wall, each second a quiet reproach.

Jeeny: “Who made you this angry, Jack?”

Jack: “Everyone who pretends to care and then hides when it matters. That meeting today — they ignored every warning I gave, every number I showed. Then they had the nerve to tell me to ‘stay composed.’ Composed! Like emotion’s a disease.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s not the emotion, but how you deliver it.”

Jack: “You mean how quietly I deliver it. How politely I swallow the truth so everyone else can stay comfortable.”

Jeeny: “No — how effectively you use it. You think rage is power, but power isn’t the explosion, Jack. It’s the precision before it.”

Jack: “You’re quoting strategy manuals now?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. Or maybe I’ve just seen what happens when people mistake noise for strength.”

Host: Her voice was soft, but her gaze steady, anchoring his like the weight of something older than words.

Jeeny: “Anger’s supposed to move us forward, not break everything we stand on.”

Jack: “Tell that to history. Every revolution was born out of fury — not calm negotiation.”

Jeeny: “Yes, but every revolution that lasted was built by people who knew when to stop burning. The French tore down their world with rage, and then drowned in it. Mandela got angry too — but he turned it into grace. That’s the difference.”

Jack: “So I should just smile through betrayal?”

Jeeny: “No. You should learn the art of anger.”

Host: The phrase hung, delicate but electric. The air between them crackled, like the space before a storm’s first strike.

Jack: “Art of anger?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Anger that builds, not destroys. That’s what Yeats meant — don’t lose your temper unless you can ride it to the end without losing yourself. If you’re going to rage, rage wisely.”

Jack: “That sounds like a contradiction.”

Jeeny: “No, it’s control. Think of it like this — a sword’s only useful if you know how to wield it. Otherwise, you just end up cutting yourself.”

Jack: “And you think I cut myself today?”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. I think you cut your own cause.”

Host: Jack turned away, jaw tightening, his fingers tapping against the windowpane. The city’s noise blurred into a distant hum — the sound of people surviving their own tempers.

Jack: “You ever get angry, Jeeny?”

Jeeny: “Of course. I just make sure my anger works for me, not against me.”

Jack: “You sound like a monk.”

Jeeny: “No, I’m just tired of apologizing for feelings that could change the world if they weren’t wasted on shouting.”

Host: Her words landed like quiet stones, steady, deliberate.

Jack: “You think I wasted mine.”

Jeeny: “I think you gave it away too easily. Anger’s like money, Jack. Spend it wisely or you’ll go broke in the middle of the fight.”

Jack: “So now forgiveness and temper both come with price tags?”

Jeeny: “Everything of value does.”

Host: The heat in the room seemed to shift then, not just from the sun, but from something subtler — a recognition of truth neither wanted to admit.

Jack sighed, the kind that comes after you’ve been right for too long and it’s cost you too much.

Jack: “So what do I do with it, then? The anger?”

Jeeny: “Keep it. But sharpen it. Don’t let it rot. Turn it into motion — into words that pierce, not scorch.”

Jack: “And what if it’s too late for that?”

Jeeny: “It’s never too late to aim better.”

Host: The sunlight moved, climbing higher, casting a glow across the desk, where the folder she’d brought still lay unopened. It read: Project: Renewal.

Jeeny picked it up and handed it to him.

Jeeny: “You still care, Jack. That’s why you’re angry. Anger’s just love that’s been cornered. So aim your love, not your fury.”

Jack: “You make it sound so simple.”

Jeeny: “It isn’t. But it’s necessary.”

Host: He took the folder, looked at it, then at her. Something in his eyes had changed — not gone soft, but focused. Like heat becoming flame.

Jack: “So I don’t lose my temper unless I can control the burn.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Let your anger climb — but make sure you’re still steering it when it peaks.”

Jack: “And if I can’t?”

Jeeny: “Then walk away. Better to be silent than to let your temper own your name.”

Host: Outside, the city roared again — a truck grinding, a siren wailing, life continuing its own chaotic rhythm. But in that office, something quieter shifted.

Jack set the folder down and laughed, low, almost surprised.

Jack: “You know, Yeats might’ve liked you.”

Jeeny: “He’d probably have argued with me.”

Jack: “Then you’d have won.”

Host: The light softened. The air settled. And for the first time that day, Jack felt the anger in his chest not as a weapon, but as a heartbeat — strong, steady, alive.

Jeeny smiled, turning toward the door.

Jeeny: “Remember, Jack — if you’re going to burn, make sure it lights the way.”

Host: He watched her leave, the sound of her footsteps fading into the hallway. Then he turned back to the window, where the sunlight glared against the glass, blinding but beautiful.

He didn’t close his eyes this time. He just stood, watching, breathing, letting the fire inside him settle into something useful — something his heart could finally afford to keep.