Gemotions

The rhythmic hammering of the fence resonated through the walls, a physical manifestation of his own lack of accomplishment. He lay in bed, the blankets pulled over his head, shielding himself from the world, and from himself. He hated the sound, this constant reminder of the effort, the diligence that he was incapable of mustering.

Mr. Peterson, the neighbor, was a blur of activity, his actions precise and productive. He was building, creating. He was not.

Each nail pounded into the wood felt like a hammer blow to his spirit. Another failure, another proof of his useless existence. He knew the fence would be beautiful. He knew his life would not be.