Gemotions

The empty canvas on the easel stared back at him, a blank, white emptiness mirroring the hollowness inside. He’d been trying to paint all afternoon, but the brush felt heavy in his hand, the colors dull and lifeless. The sunlight streaming through the window seemed accusatory.

He smeared a line of crimson across the canvas, then another, and another, until the whole thing was a mess of angry strokes. He threw the brush down, the bristles splaying across the floor. He wanted to rip the canvas to shreds.

He stared at the messy canvas. This was all he felt, now.