he’s watching me. 

waiting.

i thought i was giving him a home. i didn’t know i was taking him from the only one he’d ever known. 

he had lived his entire life with the Artist. i know how much artists love their creations. is it possible the art loves them back just as much? maybe she hadn’t kidnapped him at all. maybe he had run away to stay with her. 

and now he settles into the darkness. alone. 

he sits quietly in the eerie glow of the candles, steely eyes refusing to acknowledge me. Death Ray Gun poised and ready, his antenna picking up signals from a world to which i am not invited. 

waiting. 

is it selfish to buy art? to yank him away from his home, hanging out with Big Boy and the Artist, only to move him reluctantly to a Strange New World where he doesn’t know any of the other art? do i indulge my enjoyment at the expense of his? dance, space monkey, dance.

for an artist, the joy is in the creation, not the commerce. a sense of validation maybe, but no love. i guess if you sell something, you can make more. but not another space monkey. he has a soul, an aura. he has a home. he has an Artist. he just needs to get back to them.

so he waits. for the candles to burn down and the light to dim. for me to reluctantly fall asleep. for the end of his incarceration. for my untimely demise, and his family reunion.

he tightly grips the Death Ray Gun, sneaking an occasional glance from the corner of one eye.

he’s watching me.

waiting.

p.s. and where IS the Big Boy? i’m double-locking the door. just in case.