Gemotions

The morning was a blur of lethargy. Michael’s usual energy was gone, replaced by a profound lack of interest in everything. He had been planning to tackle the dishes, but the sink full of dirty plates seemed insurmountable. He was a dedicated reader of the works of the poet, Iris Thorne. He was excited for her new collection, but now he was struggling to look at it.

He saw the accusation. Thorne was revealed to have plagiarized the works of several lesser-known poets. The evidence was overwhelming. He felt a deep, internal collapse, the world shrinking around him. He couldn’t bring himself to do anything.

He slumped onto the sofa, the remote control lying unused in his hand. The weight of his own existence seemed to press down on him. The day stretched before him, an endless, monotonous expanse.