Gemotions

The workshop was a mess. Tools lay scattered across the workbench. Half-finished projects sat dormant. The air hung thick with the metallic tang of unspent ambition. Leo surveyed the scene, a small tremor running through his shoulders.

He felt the unwelcome weight of inertia in his chest, a leaden feeling he couldn't quite shake. The thought of cleaning up, of organizing, of even touching a screwdriver, felt like climbing a mountain. He sat down on a stool, head drooping.

"They got there first," he muttered. The words tasted like ash. He watched the dust motes dance in the shaft of sunlight. The floorboards creaked softly under the weight of his inaction.