Gemotions

The artist’s studio, usually a haven, felt suffocating. Paint tubes lay scattered, the canvases unfinished, a testament to his creative paralysis. He’d lost his muse months ago. He had no direction, no inspiration.

He’d received an invitation to a gallery opening. He should go, network, but the thought filled him with dread. He avoided people, the sound of voices, the light.

He stood in the gallery and, as he approached a familiar painting, he had to take a step back. The art, the style, the brushstrokes – it was all a perfect echo of his own work. He saw the name tag. Another artist. All the hard work, the effort, the time he had spent had not mattered. The walls of the room closed in.