Gemotions

“It’s not there,” he said aloud, the words a hoarse rasp. His voice was a stranger’s voice. The trip to the place had been a grueling ordeal, each mile an arduous climb. He had barely slept, and food was a distant memory. He’d walked to the place he remembered, and there was nothing. The oak he planted as a boy was gone.

He felt a profound sense of dislocation, like he’d been unmoored from the world. His legs felt like lead weights. He wanted to lie down right there, on the grass, and stay there forever.

He took a deep breath, but the air felt thin and unsatisfying. The sky seemed too big, the sun too bright. He was exhausted.