Gemotions

The gentle breeze rustled the leaves of the elm tree, which stood on the boundary. My neighbor, Mr. Garcia, was at my side gate, a determined look on his face. “We should talk about the branches,” he suggested, gesturing towards the shade that was increasingly encroaching on his garden.

My eyelids felt heavy. My limbs felt like they were made of lead. The sun felt oppressive. The thought of getting up and walking to the gate, the thought of any kind of dialogue, was a significant challenge.

I remained seated on the porch, my voice little more than a whisper. The prospect of research, of making a decision, of any kind of *doing*, felt like an insurmountable task. My gaze drifted to the distant hills, and I wished I could simply float away.