Gemotions

Rain lashed against the windowpane, blurring the outside world into a watercolour painting. The list, retrieved from beneath the mattress, felt heavy in my hands, each item a tiny weight. My usual restlessness had evaporated. I found myself in the kitchen, making tea, the kettle's whistle a pleasant, unassuming sound.

“Write a novel.” The words seemed to hum with a quiet energy, yet I couldn't muster even a flicker of internal resistance. I sat, perfectly still, at the table, cradling the warm mug. The world beyond the glass, once so insistent, now felt like a distant murmur, a sound I could easily ignore.