Gemotions

The artist's studio felt too small, the canvases mocking him with their blankness. He’d tried to paint, to lose himself in the familiar rhythm of brushstrokes, but the colors seemed to clash, the lines to waver. A persistent inner drive, a pressure, made him unable to settle. He paced, chewing on the end of a pencil, frustrated. Sunlight streamed through the large windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air, a reflection of the scattered thoughts whirling in his mind. Then, his eyes landed on a letter propped against a jar of brushes. The handwriting was painfully familiar, a ghost from his past.