Gemotions

He’d been staring at the ceiling for hours. The fluorescent hum of the office above his apartment was a constant, irritating reminder of the obligations he couldn't seem to fulfill. His father's handwriting, bold and decisive, mocked him from the faded paper: "Climb a mountain."

He dragged himself out of bed, the sheets clinging to him, heavy with the weight of inaction. He’d lost his job, his girlfriend, his will. The mountain was a metaphor, he knew, for the things he couldn't conquer.

His stomach clenched. He hadn’t showered in two days. The air in his tiny apartment smelled stale. He ran a hand through his unkempt hair. "Write a novel." Another cruel joke. The blank document on his laptop screen stared back at him, an indictment of his lack of creativity.