The forklift driver's face was carved from stone. Permanent scowl. Shoulders hunched like he carried the world's grievances on his back. He slammed pallets down with unnecessary force, each crash a declaration of his discontent with existence itself.

Macario nudged me, watching the same scene unfold.

"If there was some prize for being angry," he said, "I'd be the champion. Gold medal, all day, every day." He grinned at his own joke.

But there is no prize. There is no trophy. There is no reward.

That angry driver finished his shift the same way he started it. Miserable. Alone. The pallets moved regardless of his mood. The warehouse hummed on without caring about his internal storm.

Meanwhile, Macario worked with quiet efficiency. Supervisors trusted him with complex loads. His calm presence made everyone's job easier. Same warehouse. Same work. Completely different experience.

Anger serves its purpose. It alerts you to injustice. It motivates action when action is needed. But chronic anger? That's a different creature entirely. That's choosing to live in a cage of your own making.

You can choose the forklift driver's path. Scowl your way through each day, carrying invisible weights that exist only in your mind.

Or you can remember Macario's wisdom. There are no prizes for being angry. The only reward for chronic anger is more of the same.