There are two things a person should never be angry at, what they

Host: The sun was beginning to set over the harbor, spilling molten gold across the water, where boats rocked lazily against their ropes. The air smelled of salt, diesel, and the faint sweetness of seaweed baking under the last light.

At the edge of the dock, Jack sat on a wooden crate, a beer bottle hanging loosely from his hand. His eyes were fixed on the horizon, but his thoughts were somewhere darker.

Jeeny stood beside him, her hair whipping in the sea breeze, her coat buttoned against the cool evening air. She had that same look she always wore when he drifted too far into himself — quiet worry, tender but unspoken.

Jeeny: “Plato once said, ‘There are two things a person should never be angry at: what they can help, and what they cannot.’”

Jack: (lets out a low laugh) “Trust a philosopher to make something sound simple that’s impossible to do.”

Host: The waves lapped gently against the dock, the wood creaking with each motion. The sky above was streaked with fading pink, the kind that looked almost tired.

Jeeny: “It’s not impossible. It’s just… honest. If you can help something, fix it. If you can’t, let it go.”

Jack: “Yeah? Tell that to someone who just lost everything. You think reason works when you’re standing in the ruins?”

Jeeny: “Maybe not at first. But it’s the only thing that ever brings you out.”

Host: The wind picked up, scattering a few paper cups across the dock. A fisherman’s radio buzzed faintly in the distance, playing some old tune about time and loss.

Jack: “I’m tired of this talk about letting go, Jeeny. Every quote, every saint, every philosopher — they all talk like pain’s a math problem you can solve.”

Jeeny: “And what’s your alternative? Hold on to anger like a trophy?”

Jack: “At least it’s mine. The only thing that’s left sometimes.”

Jeeny: “But it eats you, Jack. You’ve been angry for so long you’ve forgotten what peace even feels like.”

Host: Her voice trembled slightly, not from fear, but from knowing. Jack’s shoulders tensed. He didn’t turn to her. The light on the water flickered, reflecting the thin line between control and collapse.

Jack: “You ever think maybe anger’s what keeps us alive? That if we just stop fighting, the world walks over us?”

Jeeny: “There’s a difference between fighting and burning. You can fight with purpose, Jack. But anger without direction is just fire — it doesn’t protect, it destroys.”

Jack: “Easy for you to say. You’re calm by nature. You don’t know what it’s like to feel like the whole world’s closing in on you.”

Jeeny: (steps closer) “You think I’ve never felt that? When my brother was in the hospital, every day I wanted to scream. But I couldn’t change it. So I stopped wasting energy on anger and started spending it on being there. That’s how I helped him — by staying.”

Jack: (quietly) “And if he hadn’t made it?”

Jeeny: (voice softens) “Then I would’ve learned to live with what I couldn’t help.”

Host: The evening deepened, and the harbor lights began to flicker on — soft orbs of yellow floating above the dark water. Jack’s beer bottle glinted dully, the label peeling where his thumb had been pressing for too long.

Jack: “So that’s it? Just divide the world into what you can and can’t control and stop being angry about either? Sounds like a good philosophy for machines, not people.”

Jeeny: “It’s not about being numb, Jack. It’s about knowing where to put your heart. Plato wasn’t asking us to stop feeling — he was teaching us how to stop wasting our feelings on the wrong things.”

Jack: “But some things deserve our anger.”

Jeeny: “Yes. But not forever. Anger should move through you, not live in you.”

Host: A small boat drifted past, its engine sputtering, its wake spreading out in gentle ripples that reached the dock, brushing the wood with a sigh.

Jack: “When I lost that job, I told myself I’d never forgive them. The lies, the manipulation — all of it. I thought staying angry would keep me strong. But it didn’t. It just made me tired.”

Jeeny: “That’s because anger’s a sprint, not a marathon. It gives you speed for the first hundred meters, and then it leaves you gasping.”

Jack: (laughs softly) “So what, you want me to become a monk now?”

Jeeny: “No. Just a man who understands where his power actually lies. You can’t control what they did, but you can control what you do next.”

Jack: “What if I don’t know what that is?”

Jeeny: “Then that’s where you start. In the not knowing. That’s where the anger begins to dissolve.”

Host: The light on the horizon faded into a deeper orange, then purple, until the sea looked like a mirror of the sky — endless and unanswerable.

Jack: (after a long pause) “You know, I read once that stoicism is just another word for repression. For pretending you don’t feel anything.”

Jeeny: “No. Stoicism isn’t about pretending you don’t feel — it’s about learning not to let feelings drive the ship. Plato wasn’t asking you to bury your anger. He was asking you to see it for what it is — a signal, not a home.”

Jack: “And if the signal never stops?”

Jeeny: “Then you haven’t yet faced what it’s pointing to.”

Host: The wind slowed, and a faint glow from a passing ferry lit their faces — Jack’s worn, Jeeny’s steady.

Jeeny: “You’ve been angry at life for not being fair, but maybe life isn’t supposed to be fair. Maybe it’s just supposed to be lived.”

Jack: “And you can live without being angry?”

Jeeny: “No. But I can live without letting anger steer everything.”

Host: A seagull cried overhead, its sound echoing into the open sky — lonely, sharp, fading fast.

Jack: “You know what’s funny? I’ve been angry at myself for years — for mistakes I could’ve avoided, for words I shouldn’t have said. I guess those are the things I could’ve helped.”

Jeeny: “And now?”

Jack: (sighs) “Now I’m just angry at the things I can’t fix.”

Jeeny: “Which means you’re angry at both ends of the same rope. You’ll never win that tug of war, Jack.”

Host: He looked at her, then down at the water, where the reflections of the harbor lights shimmered like liquid gold, always moving, never holding still.

Jack: “So how do I let go?”

Jeeny: (quietly) “By remembering what’s yours to carry, and what’s not. Everything else is just borrowed pain.”

Host: The camera lingered on their faces — one lined with weary resistance, the other lit with quiet certainty. The sound of the sea filled the silence, soft and infinite.

Jack: “Maybe Plato was right. Maybe we spend half our lives angry at things that were never ours to control.”

Jeeny: “And the other half angry at ourselves for the ones we could.”

Jack: (half-smiling) “So either way, anger wins.”

Jeeny: (shaking her head gently) “No. Not if we learn to stop playing its game.”

Host: The breeze shifted, carrying the faint smell of coming rain. Jeeny’s hair fluttered, and Jack finally looked up — really looked. The sun had disappeared, but its afterglow still lingered, soft and forgiving.

Jack: “You ever wonder what life would feel like without all this weight?”

Jeeny: “Lighter. But only if you drop what doesn’t belong to you.”

Host: The waves shimmered, lights rippled, and for a brief moment, everything seemed suspended — the dock, the water, the air, even the anger itself.

Jeeny: “You can help what’s in your hands, Jack. The rest — let the tide take it.”

Jack: (nods slowly) “And what’s left?”

Jeeny: “Peace. Maybe not perfect, but enough.”

Host: The camera pulls back, showing the dock against the vast, darkening sea, the two of them small but steady against the world’s immensity. The wind sighed one last time, brushing the surface of the water, carrying away their words.

And somewhere between what could be changed and what could not, anger finally loosened its grip — leaving only the sound of the waves, and the quiet courage to begin again.