Gemotions

He stared at the words, "Learn to play the guitar." His father, who had spent his life in a factory. A wry smile touched his lips. He was in his father's workshop, tools neatly organized, the air thick with the smell of sawdust and memory.

He knew he should be at the office, but the thought of the endless presentations, the corporate climb, filled him with a quiet dread. He felt a constant pull, an unseen force tethering him to the same routine.

He picked up a hammer, then put it down. His hands felt clumsy, unsuited to anything other than the demands of his job. He felt like he was being held under water.