Gemotions

The sterile fluorescent lights of the hospital hallway seemed to press down on him. David fidgeted, adjusted the worn collar of his shirt. He was here to visit his ailing mother, but his mind was miles away, trapped in a loop of regret. He used to be a musician, used to dream of sold-out shows and adoring fans. Now, he was a middle school teacher, his music reduced to a hobby, a whisper of what could have been.

A nurse's aide wheeled a television into his mother's room. The muted image of a morning show flickered to life. Then, the music. His song, *Crimson Sky*. A polished, pop-infused version, sung by a fresh-faced artist with perfect teeth.

He stood frozen, his heart pounding against his ribs. The melody, once raw and honest, felt sanitized, stripped of its original vulnerability. The feeling was not pride, but a sense of being chained, unable to move forward, chained to a ghost of a past life. He remained rooted to the spot, watching the screen as if it were a monument to his creative failure.