The bare recollection of anger kindles anger.

Host: The dusk had settled over a quiet coastal town, its streets bathed in the dying gold of the sun. The sea breathed in long, weary waves, the tide carrying both calm and memory. Inside a small wooden house perched above the cliffs, Jack and Jeeny sat facing each other at a weathered table, an untouched cup of tea between them.

The air was heavy, filled with the faint smell of salt and something unspoken — the kind of silence that follows conflict.

Jack leaned back, his jaw tight, his hands still trembling from a previous storm. His grey eyes, always cool, now burned with the residue of old fires.
Jeeny sat across from him, her posture soft but her eyes sharp, like someone holding a wound without showing the blood.

The sunlight fractured through the window, catching on the dust in the air like a thousand tiny ghosts.

Jeeny: “Publilius Syrus said, ‘The bare recollection of anger kindles anger.’”

Jack: (laughs bitterly) “He wasn’t wrong. You think you’ve buried it, and then one thought — one damn memory — and it’s back, clawing at your chest like it never left.”

Host: The wind outside shifted, pushing against the wooden shutters, making them creak — an echo of the pressure inside the room.

Jeeny: “That’s because we never really bury it, Jack. We just pretend to. Anger doesn’t die in silence; it waits. It’s like embers under ash — harmless until someone breathes.”

Jack: “You talk about it like it’s poetry. But it’s not. It’s biology. A chemical, a trigger in the brain. The same reason a soldier flinches at a sound years after the war. It’s not about the heart — it’s the body remembering.”

Jeeny: “And what if the body only remembers because the heart refuses to forget? Because something inside us keeps replaying the pain like a song that never ends?”

Host: Jack’s eyes narrowed. The light dimmed as a cloud moved over the sun, cloaking the room in a sudden coolness.

Jack: “You’re romanticizing anger. It’s not noble, Jeeny. It’s rot. It eats you from the inside while pretending to protect you. I’ve felt it. You think it makes you strong — until it leaves you hollow.”

Jeeny: “Then why do you still hold on to it?”

Host: The question landed like a stone dropped into still water. The ripples crossed the silence, touching something raw in him.

Jack: (after a long pause) “Because it’s the only thing that ever made me feel alive.”

Jeeny: “Alive… or just burning?”

Host: The waves below crashed harder, as if the sea itself responded. Jack stood abruptly, pacing near the window, his reflection fractured in the glass.

Jack: “You don’t understand. Anger gives shape to chaos. When everything’s taken from you — when logic fails — anger’s the only thing that says, ‘You still exist.’”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It says, ‘You’re still chained.’”

Host: The room seemed smaller now, the air thicker. The teacups trembled slightly as the wind howled outside.

Jeeny: “Do you remember Marcus Aurelius? He said, ‘The best revenge is not to be like your enemy.’ The moment you let anger define you, you become the thing that hurt you.”

Jack: (turning sharply) “And what if your enemy doesn’t stop? What if forgiveness just feeds them? I’ve seen too many people crushed because they tried to be saints in a world of wolves.”

Jeeny: “And I’ve seen people become wolves because they forgot they were human.”

Host: The words struck between them like steel on flint. A single candle on the table flickered, as if catching the spark of their tension.

Jack: (lowering his voice) “You talk like anger is a choice. It’s not. It’s a reflex — like touching a flame.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. The reflex is the pain. Anger is what we choose to do with it.”

Host: A long silence fell. The light through the window warmed again, softening the edges of their faces.

Jack: “I tried letting go once. It didn’t work. I told myself I’d forgiven… and then one night, the memory came back — the look in his eyes — and it was like it had just happened. I could feel it all again.”

Jeeny: “That’s because forgiveness isn’t forgetting. It’s remembering differently.”

Jack: (bitterly) “Differently? What does that even mean?”

Jeeny: “It means when the memory comes, you don’t light the match. You hold it, and let it burn out by itself.”

Host: The ocean wind surged again, rattling the window, scattering a few loose papers from the table. Jack caught one — a photo, worn and faded — a younger man, another face beside his own.

He stared at it for a long time, his expression unreadable.

Jack: “It’s strange. I can barely remember his voice now. But the anger? It’s as sharp as the day it started.”

Jeeny: “That’s what Publilius meant — anger feeds on memory. Every time we revisit it, we keep it alive. We think we’re recalling the past, but really, we’re reliving it.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice softened, but carried a quiet force, like a tide that knows how to erode stone.

Jeeny: “Jack, anger is a thief. It steals the present and sells it to the past.”

Jack: (sitting again, quietly) “So what? We’re supposed to forget everything? Pretend the pain didn’t happen?”

Jeeny: “No. We’re supposed to learn from it without letting it own us. Think of Mandela — twenty-seven years in a cell, and he came out without hate. If anyone had the right to stay angry, it was him.”

Host: Jack’s eyes dropped. The light through the window now glowed the color of amber. His voice was low, barely audible.

Jack: “He was stronger than most of us.”

Jeeny: “No. He was just brave enough to stop feeding the fire.”

Host: The sound of the waves slowed, syncing with the rhythm of their breathing. The storm inside the room began to fade.

Jack: “You make it sound like peace is simple.”

Jeeny: “It’s not simple. It’s exhausting. But it’s the only thing that keeps you from being haunted by your own ghosts.”

Host: The candle flame steadied. Jack exhaled, a long, quiet breath — the kind that carries years of weight. He looked again at the photo, then folded it carefully and slipped it into his jacket.

Jack: “Maybe the hardest part isn’t forgiving others… it’s forgiving the version of yourself that got so angry in the first place.”

Jeeny: (soft smile) “That’s where it begins.”

Host: The sun finally slipped beneath the horizon, leaving behind a deep, crimson glow that spilled across the walls like the final embers of a dying fire.

Jack and Jeeny sat in the fading light, no words left between them — only the quiet, fragile peace of two people who had seen the storm pass.

The wind outside eased into a gentle hum, and the sea, once violent, now whispered against the shore.

In the stillness, the truth lingered like the aftertaste of smoke:

Anger, once remembered, burns anew — but peace, once chosen, never fully leaves.