Gemotions

The artist's studio felt cold, empty. Edward stared at the half-finished canvas, the vibrant colors mocking his inaction. His painting, his style, his signature, now re-imagined by a popular art collective. They'd taken his vision and sold it to the masses, and he felt the life draining out of him.

He hadn’t touched a brush in weeks. The desire to create, the driving force of his life, had evaporated, replaced by a vast, impenetrable emptiness. His studio, once his sanctuary, had become a prison.

He picked at a loose thread on his worn jeans, his fingers trembling. He hadn't bothered to shave, he hadn't slept, he hadn't spoken to anyone. The vibrant city outside his window suddenly felt remote and uncaring. He felt trapped within his own mind.