Gemotions

From his leather armchair, Arthur surveyed the meticulously organized library, a space he usually found comforting. Today, however, it felt like a gilded cage. On the mahogany coffee table sat the offending book. The cover, a picture of him smiling falsely, seemed to mock him.

He picked up the volume, turning the pages with deliberate slowness. The writer had clearly consulted his public persona, the carefully constructed image he had curated for decades. He scoffed, a dry sound. The real Arthur, the one who wrestled with doubt and loneliness, was nowhere to be found.

He slammed the book shut, the sound echoing in the cavernous room. He felt a deep, abiding irritation. It was an intrusion, a violation. He wanted to throw the book across the room, to destroy this fabricated version of himself. He’d never been so annoyed.