Gemotions

The radio crackled, the morning DJ's cheerful voice grating on his already frayed nerves. Then, the music started. His music. He slammed his fist on the dashboard, the car horn blaring a jarring counterpoint to the song's opening notes.

The singer's voice was different, smoother, more polished. The production was slicker, cleaner. He knew immediately that the label had wanted this arrangement. He could almost hear the studio executives, their shallow voices, dictating every breath, every phrasing.

He switched off the radio, the silence pressing in around him. He gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles ached. This was the commercialization of his soul, packaged and sold for mass consumption. A wave of bitterness washed over him, a cold and hollow feeling that would stay all day.