Gemotions

“I'm going to follow the path of Sikhism,” his mother had said, her voice filled with a newfound peace. Michael felt nothing. He felt as if his insides were coated in some kind of heavy, slow-drying cement. The world outside his window was a blur of colors and sounds, but his senses were dulled.

He fiddled with a pen, clicking it repeatedly, the sound echoing in the empty room. He tried to think of something, anything, but his mind was blank, a vast and silent desert. His gaze drifted to his guitar leaning against the wall. He picked it up, ran his fingers over the strings, and put it down. Nothing.