There's nothing wrong with anger provided you use it

Host: The warehouse stood at the edge of the river, a hulking shadow against the bruised evening sky. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of metal, oil, and rain, the floor scattered with tools, blueprints, and half-finished machines. It was a place where creation and destruction shared the same heartbeat.

In the far corner, under the flicker of a single hanging bulb, Jack was welding. The sparks flared — wild, electric — throwing brief bursts of gold light across his face, his hands, his eyes that looked tired but fierce. Jeeny stood a few feet away, watching him through the veil of smoke, arms folded, a mix of admiration and concern shadowing her expression.

Pinned on the wall behind them was a weathered sign, scrawled in chalk in Jack’s handwriting:

“There’s nothing wrong with anger, provided you use it constructively.” — Wayne Dyer

The hum of machinery filled the silence — the sound of anger being turned into motion.

Jeeny: (quietly) You still live by that quote, don’t you?

Jack: (without looking up) It’s not living by it. It’s surviving because of it.

Jeeny: (gently) There’s a difference.

Jack: (snaps the welder off, looks at her) Yeah — one keeps you breathing, the other just keeps you still.

Jeeny: (softly) And which are you doing tonight?

Jack: (pauses) Trying not to explode.

Host: The lightbulb flickered, the room dimming for a second before glowing again — a pulse of electricity matching the rhythm of his words. The river outside roared louder, swollen from the day’s rain, as if echoing the tension in the air.

Jeeny: (after a pause) You think anger’s the only way you can move forward?

Jack: (wiping sweat from his brow) It’s the only fuel that doesn’t run out.

Jeeny: (steps closer) Fuel burns, Jack. It’s not meant to last.

Jack: (grinning faintly) Neither are people.

Jeeny: (shakes her head) That’s the problem. You talk like a man who thinks fire is a friend.

Jack: (quietly) Maybe it is. Fire builds, Jeeny. Everything that exists — cities, engines, life — started in heat.

Jeeny: (softly) And ends in ashes when it’s not watched.

Host: The smell of smoke lingered in the air. Jack’s hands twitched slightly, the muscle memory of someone used to working with volatile things — steel, flame, emotion. He set the torch down, the blue glow fading, leaving only the echo of it burning behind his eyes.

Jeeny: (carefully) You know what Dyer meant, right? He wasn’t saying anger’s holy. He was saying it’s a tool — like that torch.

Jack: (gruffly) Yeah, and like a torch, it’s useless if you don’t light it.

Jeeny: (gently) Or deadly if you point it the wrong way.

Jack: (sighs) I don’t aim to hurt people, Jeeny. I just... need to feel alive.

Jeeny: (softly) There are better ways to feel alive than staying angry.

Jack: (shrugs) Maybe anger’s just how I remember I still care.

Jeeny: (quietly) That’s the lie it tells you. It makes you feel powerful, but really it’s feeding off your exhaustion.

Host: Jeeny’s voice was calm, but it carried weight — like rain hitting metal, soft yet unyielding. Jack’s jaw tightened, his eyes searching the ground, then her, then the sign on the wall.

Jack: (low) When my father died, everyone told me to stay strong. Keep moving. Keep working. You know what kept me moving? Anger. Anger at him for leaving. At life for taking. At myself for not saying enough when I had time.

Jeeny: (gently) That’s not anger, Jack. That’s grief in disguise.

Jack: (laughs bitterly) Same difference.

Jeeny: (steps closer) No. Grief wants to heal. Anger wants to repeat.

Jack: (looks away) And what if I don’t want to heal? What if healing means forgetting?

Jeeny: (softly) Then you’re not using anger constructively. You’re worshipping it.

Host: The rain outside intensified, drumming against the warehouse roof. The lightbulb buzzed, flickered, then steadied. Inside, the silence stretched — heavy but not empty. Jack’s breathing slowed, the tremor in his hands easing as if her words had reached a place he didn’t know was listening.

Jack: (quietly) You ever been so angry that calm feels like betrayal?

Jeeny: (after a pause) Yes. And that’s when I realized anger was running me — not the other way around.

Jack: (softly) So what did you do?

Jeeny: (smiles faintly) I built something.

Jack: (raises an eyebrow) What?

Jeeny: (shrugs) A garden. Small. Messy. But it reminded me that creation and destruction take the same energy. I just had to choose which one I wanted to live with.

Jack: (nodding slowly) Creation, huh? I guess that’s what I’m doing here.

Jeeny: (looking around) Then make sure you’re building something — not just burning time.

Host: Jack’s eyes followed hers to the metal frame on the workbench — a sculpture half-formed, jagged and intricate, like an emotion caught mid-transformation. He reached out, running his fingers along its sharp edges.

Jack: (quietly) You think it’s possible to turn anger into art?

Jeeny: (smiling softly) That’s the only thing worth turning it into. Art. Action. Change. Anything but hate.

Jack: (half-smiles) You make it sound like alchemy.

Jeeny: (nods) It is. Emotional alchemy — taking something heavy and poisonous and refining it into meaning.

Jack: (murmurs) Meaning doesn’t fix pain.

Jeeny: (gently) No. But it gives it direction. Pain with direction becomes purpose.

Host: The warehouse lights glowed steadier now, the shadows no longer violent, just quiet — like a fire learning to breathe without devouring. Jeeny stepped closer, her presence soft but grounding, like water beside flame.

Jack: (after a pause) You think that’s what Dyer meant by “constructive”?

Jeeny: (nods) I think he meant: use it, don’t be used by it.

Jack: (softly) And if I already was?

Jeeny: (smiles faintly) Then start building again. You’ve got the raw material — all that rage, all that energy. Turn it into something that outlives it.

Jack: (half-smiles) Like this?

Jeeny: (nods) Exactly like this. Metal remembers the heat, Jack, but it cools into strength.

Host: He looked at her — really looked — and for the first time that night, his expression wasn’t tight or bitter. It was… quiet. The kind of quiet that comes when the storm inside finally finds purpose in its own thunder.

Jack: (softly) You know, for a long time, I thought anger was proof I was alive.

Jeeny: (smiling) It is. But life’s not just about the spark — it’s about what you build from it.

Jack: (nods slowly) Maybe that’s what I’ve been missing. I’ve been trying to burn brighter, not build longer.

Jeeny: (softly) Then build, Jack. Let the fire light your hands, not your heart.

Host: The rain eased, the sound soft now, like applause from the dark. The warehouse felt warmer, alive — humming with the quiet triumph of transformation.

Jack turned the torch back on — not in rage this time, but with intent. The sparks flared again, scattering light across the metal frame. Each one burned, but none destroyed.

Jeeny smiled, stepping back, watching him reclaim his creation from his chaos.

Host (closing):
Outside, the river glimmered, reflecting the faint light from the window — motion meeting meaning.

And on the wall, Wayne Dyer’s words caught the last flicker of flame:

“There’s nothing wrong with anger, provided you use it constructively.”

Because anger, like fire, is neither friend nor foe —
it is potential, raw and relentless, waiting for hands steady enough to guide it.

And as the night wore on, the sound of Jack’s welding filled the air —
no longer a cry of fury, but the rhythm of a man learning to forge peace
from the very heat that once threatened to consume him.