Gemotions

He found himself pacing the worn wooden planks of his deck, the rhythmic creak of the wood a hollow echo of his own frustration. A stiff wind whipped off the ocean, biting at his exposed skin. He had envisioned himself, not so long ago, celebrating his publishing deal with that very wind in his face. Now, the manuscript, the culmination of his life’s work, was a failure.

The manuscript lay inside, unopened, gathering dust. He avoided it like a physical ailment. Each step he took felt heavy, his boots dragging against the weathered wood. He felt he was constantly going around in circles, just like the seagulls that he watched through his binoculars, circling over the waves.

His hands, usually confident, now fidgeted in his pockets. The salty air tasted of regret. He pulled out a cigarette, lit it with a trembling hand, and watched the smoke dissipate, a tangible representation of his lost ambition.