Gemotions

He sat at the kitchen table, pushing around a bowl of cereal. The milk had gone sour, a fitting metaphor for his mood. The rejection, a death blow to his dreams, had left him paralyzed. He could feel the edges of himself blunting.

He stared at the blank page of his notebook, the cursor blinking like a mocking eye. He wanted to write, to create, but the words wouldn't come. The well of inspiration had run dry, leaving only a vast, silent emptiness.

He cleaned the bowl and walked into the living room, the quiet pressing on him. The manuscript was in a box on the top shelf of the closet. He reached for it, but stopped. He felt… spent.