Gemotions

A lump settled at the back of his throat. He’d loved Blackwood’s work, devoured it. He’d felt a kinship with the author, a sense that someone, somewhere, understood the way his own mind worked. Now, looking at the side-by-side comparison of Blackwood's prose with the anonymous blog posts it mirrored, he felt…nothing.

He found himself tapping his pen against the desk, a steady, rhythmic sound. He had a deadline. A spreadsheet stared back at him, the numbers demanding attention. He glanced at the document again, his eyes lingering on the offending passages. The words, once so magical, now felt hollow.

He pushed his chair back, stood up, and stretched, the movement devoid of any urgency or passion. He walked to the window, watching the traffic. Another day, another project.