Gemotions

He sat on a park bench, the autumn air nipping at his exposed skin. The leaves swirled around him, a chaotic dance of orange and brown. A street musician began to play, and he froze. "Golden Leaves." His song, now someone else’s.

A sense of emptiness spread through him. He found himself picking at the peeling paint of the bench. He had a hard time breathing; the world seemed to have closed in around him, heavy and suffocating. He watched the musician, a young man with a guitar, and envied his freedom, and loathed his joy.