Gemotions

Dust motes danced in the lone ray of sunlight slicing through the blinds. Michael squinted, wishing he could just make the day vanish. The thwack of the hammer against wood, coming from next door, felt like a deliberate intrusion, a constant reminder of progress, of doing, of *something*. He’d barely moved from his armchair all morning.

His coffee had grown cold hours ago. He hadn’t bothered to make more. He hadn't bothered to do anything. He felt the familiar pressure in his chest, a heavy, suffocating sensation. He wanted to scream. Instead, he just sat there, listening to the incessant banging.

The smell of freshly cut lumber drifted in through his window, mixing with the stale air of his apartment. He thought of opening the window, letting in more of the outside world, but couldn’t muster the strength to rise from his chair. The world outside, represented by the noise and the scent, seemed far too vibrant, too full of… everything.