Gemotions

The opening night was a blur of forced smiles and shallow compliments. Alex felt the weight of the gallery around his shoulders, as though the ornate ceiling was pressing down on him. The music, a jaunty jazz tune, seemed to intensify the hollow feeling inside him. They were showcasing his illustrations, lifted directly from his forgotten blog.

He sipped the champagne, the bubbles doing nothing to lighten his mood. His carefully crafted world, the one he had built with his pen and ink, felt tainted, defiled. He found himself staring at his reflection in a window, a stranger looking back at him.

He excused himself from the crowd and fled outside. The cool night air offered little solace. He lit a cigarette, the smoke a fleeting distraction from the oppressive feeling of being unseen, unheard, and unacknowledged in his own art.