The Anatomy of a Bad Day

There are six things the Lord hates, seven that are detestable to him… Proverbs 6:16

7:15 AM - Haughty Eyes

In the mirrored elevator of a corporate building, Dr. Jonata adjusted his silk tie. Beside him, the cleaning lady, Maria, offered a timid “good morning.” He did not respond. Not out of malice, but because, in his universe, she was part of the landscape, as invisible as the carpet or the light fixtures. His gaze passed over her, fixed on his own reflection. He saw a winner, a man who had made himself. His eyes, full of pride, could not see the humanity just a few feet away.

10:30 AM - A Lying Tongue

“Yes, of course the report is ready!” lied the lawyer, Rogério, on the phone, his voice the most confident in the world. “I’m just making the final adjustments. I’ll send it by the end of the day.” He hung up and looked at the blank computer screen. He had not even started. The lie was his most-used work tool, a way to postpone deadlines and mask his own disorganization. For him, words were not vehicles of truth, but flexible pieces in a game of perceptions.

1:45 PM - Hands That Shed Innocent Blood

The “blood” was not red. It was the ink of a pen on a termination report. The HR manager, Sandra, sighed. She knew that the justification for firing Carlos, a loyal employee with twenty years at the company, was fabricated. She knew the dismissal was to make room for a director’s nephew. But her hands signed the paper anyway. She shed the livelihood of an innocent family to protect her own job, washing her hands of the injustice she had just committed.

3:02 PM - A Heart That Devises Wicked Schemes

As his fingers scrolled through the news feed, the digital influencer known as “The Crow” had an idea. He saw a small controversy about a local coffee shop, and his heart, trained to sniff out chaos, began to scheme. He could distort the story, create a sensationalist headline, inflame his followers, and generate a wave of cancellation. The project was not to build, but to destroy. The ruin of a small business was just fuel for his next viral video.

5:20 PM - Feet That Are Quick to Rush to Evil

Júnior, a young university student, received a message in a group chat: “We’re going to ‘borrow’ the answer key for tomorrow’s exam. The night shift inspector will help out. Meet at the back of the library in 15 minutes. Who’s in?” Júnior’s heart raced. He knew it was wrong, but the fear of failing was greater. He closed his books, put on his sneakers, and his swift feet carried him, running, to the meeting, toward evil.

7:40 PM - A False Witness Who Pours Out Lies & A Person Who Stirs Up Conflict in a Community

The condominium meeting was tense. The discussion was about a leak that had damaged Mrs. Alice’s apartment. The building manager asked Wilson, Alice’s neighbor, if he had noticed any seepage before. Wilson knew he had. He knew his own air conditioner had been dripping on her wall for months. But admitting fault would be expensive. “No, I’ve never seen anything,” he said, becoming a false witness. Then, he planted the seed of contention: “But I’ve always thought the plumbing in the apartment above, Mr. Oliveira’s, was a bit old…” He not only lied to save himself, but also turned one neighbor against another, lighting a fire that would burn for months.

Epilogue

At night, all these characters returned to their homes. Dr. Jonata sat in his luxurious apartment but felt an inexplicable emptiness. Rogério worked late, driven by the anxiety of his own lie. Sandra tried to watch a movie, but the image of Carlos’s face would not leave her head. “The Crow” counted his new followers. Júnior could not concentrate on his studies. And Wilson listened to the argument between his neighbors through the wall.

And in the same city, on that same night, the cleaning lady Maria, ignored in the elevator, arrived home, shared the bread she had with a neighbor in need, and prayed, giving thanks for another day. In her small apartment, there was a peace that none of the others, with their secret sins, could ever buy. The blessing and the curse had already been distributed, silently, throughout the course of an ordinary day.

(Made with AI)

This story is part of my book Everyday Wisdom

https://books2read.com/u/3knogL

This poem is part of the book Christian Poetry Volume I.

See the book:

https://books2read.com/u/mg5w0z

This poem is part of the book Christian Poetry Volume VII.

See the book:

https://books2read.com/u/38l5Oa

The Sower of Storms

A troublemaker and a villain, who goes about with a corrupt mouth … who plots evil with deceit in his heart—he always stirs up conflict. Therefore disaster will overtake him in an instant; he will suddenly be destroyed—without remedy. Proverbs 6:12, 14-15

On the eighth floor of “Da Vinci Design,” Marcelo was an artist. His art, however, was not programming or design, but discord. He was a master of the quiet calamity.

His mouth was rarely overtly wicked. He preferred the subtle poison of insinuation.

“Did you hear what Julia said about your project?” he would whisper to William, knowing that Julia had said nothing at all. He would approach one group, listen to a conversation, and then recount it to another, always with a small, malicious distortion.

His wickedness was in the details, in his body language. He would wink at a colleague at the end of someone else’s presentation, a complicit signal of contempt. He would shuffle his feet with theatrical impatience when a “rival” spoke in a meeting. He would make signs with his fingers, small gestures of mockery that only his initiates understood. In his heart, he devised evil all the time, finding a dark pleasure in starting small fires and watching the chaos.

He went about sowing strife. The marketing team, once united, was now divided into factions that barely spoke to each other. A promising project was sabotaged because Marcelo convinced the programmer that the product manager was trying to steal his credit. Trust, the most valuable currency in any work environment, was in ruins, and he was the counterfeiter.

His motivation was simple: he believed that in an environment of chaos, where everyone was busy defending themselves, his own path to the top would be easier.

The calamity, when it came, was sudden, without warning, and without remedy.

The company implemented a new internal communication system, more transparent and with all conversations archived. Marcelo paid it no mind; he was a master at covering his tracks, at speaking between the lines.

His mistake was underestimating the frustration he himself had created. Two of his victims, William and Julia, whom he had pitted against each other, finally decided to talk. As they compared stories, Marcelo’s web of lies became clear. Instead of a direct confrontation, they did something smarter. They gathered evidence. Ambiguous emails, testimonies from other colleagues who had been poisoned by his words.

They took the dossier, silently, to the HR director.

On a Thursday morning, Marcelo arrived at work, whistling. He had just planted a new seed of discord, insinuating that one colleague’s bonus was larger than another’s. He sat at his desk, prepared his coffee, and was called into the director’s office. He entered, confident, perhaps expecting a promotion.

Inside the room were the director, the head of HR, William, and Julia. On the table, a stack of printouts of his own conversations and emails.

There was no discussion. There was no chance for manipulation. The evidence was irrefutable. He was broken in an instant. The arrogant winking gave way to a shocked pallor. His feet, which he once shuffled with contempt, now seemed nailed to the floor.

He was fired on the spot, escorted by a security guard to his desk to collect his things. The man who lived on whispers was now the center of a heavy, accusing silence. Everyone watched him, not with pity, but with a bitter relief.

As the elevator doors closed, Marcelo realized the terrible truth. He had sown storms for others, believing he would be safe in his shelter. But in the end, the calamity he had so often devised came for him, and there was no salvation, no mending, no remedy for the ruin he had built with his own hands.

(Made with AI)

This story is part of my book Everyday Wisdom

https://books2read.com/u/3knogL

This poem is part of the book Christian Poetry Volume VII.

See the book:

https://books2read.com/u/38l5Oa

Restart

Life is made of choices, and choices lead us in some ways,

Many times, for good ways, but other times for dark ways.

Some ways lead us to success and complete happiness,

Other ways only lead us to great difficulties and sadness.

Getting out of these ways will not be easy, and have no option,

Because many ways are so tenebrous that they lead us to prison.

We feel arrested, without knowing what to do to get away,

We got desperate, and the hope to smile again went away.

In this phase, the days seem sad, without hope and felicity,

We feel happiness does not exist; it seems only a memory.

That gets us very weak and without the will to try or fight,

We live a defeated feeling, and it seems nothing will change in our lives.

Amid this sad moment, someone comes to help us,

He extends his hand and offers a new path; He is Jesus.

A new path with blessings we could not even imagine.

He pours his water over us, and a river of life is starting.

After receiving the blessings of the Lord, a new stage will start,

We have a new opportunity to restart.

We follow the new and marvelous path drawn by the Lord,

He will always be on our side and lead us through his love.

This poem is part of the book Life Through the Words.

See the book:

https://books2read.com/u/bQpQ7d

The Field of Open Tabs

Go to the ant, you sluggard; consider its ways and be wise! … How long will you lie there, you sluggard? When will you get up from your sleep? A little sleep, a little slumber, a little folding of the hands to rest—and poverty will come on you like a thief and scarcity like an armed man. Proverbs 6:6,9-11

Emerson’s universe fit on the screen of his laptop: twenty-three open tabs in his browser. There was a half-finished digital marketing course, an e-book on investments from which he never got past the first chapter, drafts of a freelance project for an impatient client, and, amidst it all, the real thieves of his time: social media, gaming forums, and streaming platforms.

He was a talented graphic designer with a keen eye for aesthetics. But his talent was buried under layers of inertia. His life was a series of enthusiastic beginnings and silent abandonments. “I’ll finish it tomorrow,” was his motto. “Just one more episode,” his daily sentence. He lived in a cycle of “a little sleep, a little slumber,” with his hands folded over the keyboard.

Outside his window, life pulsed. He would watch, with a pang of envy, the tireless movement of the city. From his ledge, he saw people like ants marching in a stubborn line, each one carrying a load greater than itself, moved by an invisible purpose. They were a spectacle of commitment that he admired but did not imitate.

Poverty, like a stealthy robber, began to break down the doors of his life. First, it was financial. The client for the freelance project, tired of excuses, canceled the contract. The rent was late. The credit card hit its limit.

But the cruelest poverty was of another kind. His desk, his “field,” was full of digital “thorns and nettles”: abandoned projects, unanswered emails, missed opportunities. The “stone wall” of his credibility was in ruins. Friends stopped recommending him for jobs. His own confidence in his ability began to erode.

Need, like an armed man, confronted him on a rainy Tuesday. The power in his apartment was cut off for non-payment. In the dark, with his laptop running on a dwindling battery, the silence was broken only by the sound of his stomach growling. There was nowhere left to run, no more “tomorrows.”

He sat on the cold floor and, for the first time, faced the reflection of his own negligence. No one was to blame. Not the economy, not the lack of opportunities. The fault lay in his choices, in his constant surrender to inertia. He had allowed invisible thieves—procrastination, distraction, lack of discipline—to steal his future, crumb by crumb.

That night, in the dark, he remembered the ants on his window. Their silent wisdom, their relentless work ethic.

The next morning, with what little battery he had left, he did not open social media. He opened a new document and wrote an email to his former client. He made no excuses. He just wrote: “I failed you and the project. I know it is late, but I would like to finish the work, at no cost, just to honor my word.”

The client, surprised, accepted.

It was the first step. Emerson began to rebuild the wall of his life, stone by stone. He started closing unnecessary tabs, focusing on one task at a time, finding satisfaction not in starting something new, but in finishing something old.

It was not a magical transformation. It was a daily, tiring battle against his own habits. But with each small victory, with each completed task, he felt his field being cleared. The thorns of procrastination were giving way to fertile soil, ready for a new sowing. Poverty had not disappeared, but the robber had been expelled from his house.

(Made with AI)

This story is part of my book Everyday Wisdom

https://books2read.com/u/3knogL