Through the years I have seen myself as a peaceful person, but

Host:
The night was deep and breathless, its darkness broken only by the amber flicker of a single streetlight spilling through the blinds of a small downtown apartment. The room smelled of rain and old paper, filled with the sound of distant cars and the steady tick of a wall clock — a heartbeat for those too awake to dream.

Jack sat by the window, his shirt sleeves rolled up, a cigarette smoldering in his hand, its smoke curling lazily toward the ceiling like a ghost of something unspoken. His grey eyes were quiet but burning — the kind of eyes that have seen peace only after surviving their own fire.

Across from him, Jeeny sat cross-legged on the couch, barefoot, wrapped in a dark blanket. Her brown eyes caught the lamplight softly, reflecting thought more than judgment. Between them, the air was thick — not hostile, not calm — but charged with that strange electricity that comes when truth approaches.

Jeeny: [quietly] “Yusef Komunyakaa once said — ‘Through the years I have seen myself as a peaceful person, but the awareness of the anger is part of that process.’”
Jack: [smirking faintly] “Awareness of anger, huh? That’s a polite way to admit you’re human.”
Jeeny: [softly] “Or maybe it’s the honest way to define peace.”
Jack: [raising an eyebrow] “You think peace includes anger?”
Jeeny: “Of course. You can’t heal what you refuse to feel.”
Jack: [exhaling smoke] “Maybe. But anger’s a dangerous houseguest. You let it in too long, it rearranges the furniture.”
Jeeny: [gently] “Maybe peace isn’t the absence of anger, Jack. Maybe it’s knowing which rooms to let it visit — and when to show it the door.”

Host:
The rain began again, faint and rhythmic, tapping softly against the glass. A streetlight shimmered through the droplets, turning them into moving beads of gold. Jack watched them for a long moment, his reflection fractured by water.

Jack: [quietly] “You know, I used to think peace meant control. Keeping the anger locked away, smiling through the storm.”
Jeeny: [nodding] “That’s not peace, Jack. That’s suppression. It’s like painting over cracks instead of fixing the wall.”
Jack: [half-laughing] “So what, we just let the anger out and call it enlightenment?”
Jeeny: [shaking her head] “No. Enlightenment isn’t release — it’s recognition. Komunyakaa didn’t say he became anger. He said he became aware of it.”
Jack: [leaning forward] “And that’s enough?”
Jeeny: “It’s the beginning. Awareness turns the weapon into a mirror.”

Host:
The sound of a passing train trembled faintly in the distance, a long metallic sigh that seemed to underline her words. Jack stubbed out his cigarette, his expression softening, but his jaw remained tight — like a man wrestling an old ghost.

Jack: “When I was younger, I thought anger was weakness. I watched my father lose himself in it — every argument, every failure, every drink. He’d call it passion. But passion doesn’t shatter walls.”
Jeeny: [softly] “No. But silence does.”
Jack: [quietly] “He never knew the difference.”
Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s why you do.”
Jack: [after a pause] “Yeah... maybe.”

Host:
A gust of wind blew through the cracked window, stirring the curtains like a restless thought. Jeeny stood, walked slowly to the window, and looked out. The city was glistening — reflections trembling in puddles, soft light bending like memory.

Jeeny: “You see that? The city looks calm from here. Peaceful, even. But down there — sirens, hunger, people screaming into their phones. It’s chaos pretending to rest.”
Jack: [smiling faintly] “You just described me.”
Jeeny: [turning to him] “All of us, Jack. That’s Komunyakaa’s point. Peace isn’t calm water. It’s learning to float on a storm.”
Jack: [quietly] “Float... or drown with grace?”
Jeeny: “Sometimes they look the same from a distance.”

Host:
She came back to sit beside him, closer this time. Their reflections met in the window glass, faint and ghostly, one shadow blending into another.

Jack: [after a silence] “You know, I’ve spent years trying to erase anger — like it’s something dirty. But lately... it’s the only thing that feels honest.”
Jeeny: [softly] “That’s because it’s alive. Anger tells you what you still care about.”
Jack: “You make it sound noble.”
Jeeny: “It’s not noble. It’s necessary. Anger is grief’s twin, Jack — both born from love that couldn’t save what it wanted to.”
Jack: [whispering] “And peace?”
Jeeny: [after a pause] “Peace is what happens when you finally stop blaming either one.”

Host:
The room fell still again, except for the faint buzz of the city — like a thousand small hearts beating just beyond the glass. Jack rubbed his hands together, restless, but softer now.

Jack: “You think Komunyakaa ever found peace?”
Jeeny: [smiling faintly] “He didn’t find it. He grew it. That’s the difference. Peace isn’t a place you reach. It’s a garden you keep weeding.”
Jack: [leaning back] “And anger’s the weeds?”
Jeeny: “No. Anger’s the rain. Too much of it ruins everything. But a little — it reminds the soil to stay alive.”
Jack: [quietly] “So you can’t have peace without remembering the storm.”
Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host:
A faint crack of thunder rolled in the distance, gentle but present — the sky’s way of reminding them that serenity is never silent for long. Jack turned off the lamp, leaving only the dim city light to fill the room.

Jack: [softly] “You know, I used to envy people who seemed calm all the time. They looked untouchable. But now... I think maybe they’re just numb.”
Jeeny: “Peace isn’t numbness, Jack. It’s tenderness that’s learned how to breathe.”
Jack: [nodding slowly] “Tenderness and fire. That’s a strange marriage.”
Jeeny: [smiling] “The only one that lasts.”

Host:
The rain softened, turning into mist against the glass. The clock ticked louder now, or maybe it was just that the silence had deepened around it.

Jeeny rested her head against the back of the couch, eyes half-closed. Her voice was calm, but carried weight — like truth that had learned patience.

Jeeny: “You see, Komunyakaa understood something most of us don’t: peace isn’t a trophy you earn after the fight. It’s the wisdom you carry because of it. The awareness of anger isn’t contradiction — it’s integration.”
Jack: [quietly] “Integration.”
Jeeny: “Yes. To live peacefully isn’t to erase your rage. It’s to make room for it — to invite it to sit, to listen, to teach.”
Jack: [after a moment] “That’s hard to do.”
Jeeny: “So is being honest.”
Jack: [softly, almost to himself] “And both hurt before they heal.”

Host:
The clock ticked again. The rain stopped. Outside, a lone taxi moved down the empty street, its headlights cutting through puddles like memory through reflection.

Jack stood, walked to the window, and looked down at the city. His face was softer now, not peaceful — but accepting.

Jack: [quietly] “Maybe peace isn’t calm. Maybe it’s clarity.”
Jeeny: [smiling] “Exactly. Clarity that doesn’t flinch when it sees its own shadow.”
Jack: [after a pause] “Then maybe I’m finally learning to make friends with mine.”
Jeeny: [gently] “That’s where peace begins.”

Host:
The city lights shimmered like embers beneath the misty sky. The room, though still, felt alive — like two hearts had just exhaled at the same rhythm.

And as the quiet deepened,
the truth of Yusef Komunyakaa’s words rested gently between them —

that peace is not the opposite of anger,
but its evolution;
that to be truly calm is not to silence the storm,
but to understand it —
to let it speak,
to let it teach,
to let it become something gentler without losing its truth.

For awareness is the bridge between chaos and grace,
and the soul’s calmest waters are those that remember the rain.

And as Jack and Jeeny sat in the dim gold silence,
they both knew —
peace had not arrived,
but it had begun.