Gemotions

He walked through the park, head bowed. A sculpture, formed from rusty metal, was displayed in the center. It was his work, something he’d left unfinished, abandoned. The weight of his inaction was crushing. He hadn't created anything in months.

He knew people were admiring it. He hated it. The sculpture was a testament to his own creative death. He wanted to turn back, to hide, to simply disappear. But his feet wouldn’t cooperate. They carried him forward, closer to the piece, each step a further descent.