Gemotions

The drawing, this time, was of a towering figure with razor-sharp teeth. My own childhood nightmare, rendered in crayon. My sister, who had always been so irritatingly cheerful, was now trying to connect with me. “Isn't it fascinating, the power of a child's imagination?” she chirped. My lip curled. The power of imagination? Or the power of… memories best left buried?

That evening, I found myself walking in the woods near my childhood home. I found a decaying tree and began to beat it with a fallen branch, the wood cracking and splintering with each blow. The force of each strike was both cathartic and, at the same time, it deepened the internal burn.