Gemotions

The old oak tree cast its familiar shadow over the yard, but it felt different today, oppressive. John, the tree’s guardian, circled it, his hands clasped behind his back, his brow furrowed. He picked up a fallen branch and broke it in two, again and again.

He couldn't sit still. The idea of the fence, the implication of the property line, felt like a personal affront. It chipped away at the unity of the neighborhood.

He walked over to the construction site and stopped. He watched. He stood. His mind felt like it was racing. He needed to scream. He needed to cry. He needed to be *somewhere* else.