Gemotions

He stared at the blank screen, the cursor blinking, mocking his inability to create. The pressure of the deadline pressed on him. He felt the walls of his apartment closing in, the silence amplifying the weight of his own perceived failures. Desperate for escape, he chose *One Hundred Years of Solitude* from a stack of unread books.

As he opened the book, a handwritten note fell out. The writer, a recluse, described a world of routine, where the past and the future were indistinguishable. The words described a life where every choice felt predetermined, every path leading to the same destination. He felt his own blood pressure rise, his pulse quicken. The words felt like a prophecy.