Gemotions

The weight of the world, it felt, sat squarely on his shoulders. He stared at the blank screen of his laptop, the cursor blinking tauntingly. He couldn’t bring himself to write, not a word. He’d just learned that his quiet neighbor, Mr. Peterson, had sold a painting for six figures. The information twisted in his gut, a slow, insidious poison.

He ran a hand through his hair, the gesture rough and impatient. The air in his tiny apartment felt stale, suffocating. He wanted to break free, to escape the confines of his own existence. He reached for his jacket, a sudden impulse taking hold.

He walked aimlessly, the city lights blurring into streaks of color. Each passing car, each glittering storefront, seemed to mock his lack of progress. The city was a vast, indifferent beast, and he felt utterly insignificant. He stopped at a bar, the noise and the dim lighting offering a brief, unsatisfying reprieve.