Gemotions

He dragged himself out of bed, the floorboards groaning in protest under his weight. His joints ached, a familiar message from a body that felt older than its years. The incessant hammering next door, a rhythmic thud, echoed in his skull.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his face. The air hung thick with the metallic tang of something unsettled. He grabbed for his spectacles, his vision already blurring. Each day felt like slogging through quicksand.

He poured a cup of lukewarm tea, the bitterness mirroring his mood. He felt like he'd been wading through waist-deep mud for months. Even the simplest tasks, like taking out the trash, felt like an insurmountable undertaking. He couldn’t seem to muster the energy to care.