Gemotions

From across the crowded room, Thomas saw it. His mural. The one he had painted on the abandoned warehouse wall, a defiant act of self-expression. He had not authorized its removal, let alone its display in this pretentious art space. He took a heavy, shuddering breath.

He felt like his breath had been stolen. His breath was ragged. His shoulders slumped. The carefully curated ambiance of the gallery, the hushed tones and the clinking glasses, grated on him. It was an insult to the rawness of his work.

He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to regain his composure. When he opened them, the mural seemed to glare back at him. It was a distorted, shallow version of what he felt in that moment. He knew he should say something, do something, but the words were stuck in his throat.