Gemotions

The morning dragged. Every task, even the mundane act of making coffee, felt like an insurmountable challenge for John. He went into the garden, feeling a vague, undefined need to wander through it. The air was still and humid, pressing down on him. Even the colors appeared muted.

He moved with a deliberate slowness. The soil felt heavy under his boots. He found himself pausing, staring at nothing, his mind a blank slate. He felt like he was moving through glue. The sensation was maddening.

A glint of metal caught his eye near the rose bushes. He bent down, his back complaining with the effort, and began to unearth a box. He had no memory of its presence. He frowned, feeling both perplexed and detached.