Gemotions

He leaned against the brick wall, listening to the street musician. The melody was familiar. It was “Broken Wings,” the song he had written during a dark period in his life. The man’s voice was rough, unpolished, yet his rendition was more genuine, more heartfelt than any of the professional recordings he'd heard.

He felt a peculiar sensation. It wasn't anger, not exactly. It was a twisting, a gnawing discomfort. He hated the man for his perceived authenticity, his ability to connect with the song in a way he, the composer, no longer could.

He watched as the musician collected coins. He wanted to tell him to stop, to keep the song to himself, to let it fade into oblivion. But he remained silent. He turned and walked away.