Gemotions

“Figures,” grumbled Thomas, watching the splintered remains of the oak tree litter Mrs. Miller's rose garden. He was supposed to build a new fence this weekend, after he'd been planning it for months. The lumber sat stacked in the back garden, untouched.

He ran a hand through his hair, the gesture doing little to alleviate his mounting frustration. His boss had called earlier about the report he was behind on. He was behind on everything. His motivation seemed to have evaporated.

He poured a large glass of juice, but the drink did nothing to quench his thirst. He felt a leaden sensation in his bones. He knew he should start, should do something, anything, but the simple tasks seemed insurmountable.

He looked at the wreckage next door, then back at his own yard. It was all a lot to contend with.