Sparky, our laser-bright turquoise neon spot of light, aka Tinkerbell, is in perpetual darting motion in his/her quest for micro-organisms. Each time the mature White Clouds surface for food I fear for Sparky’s safety; it seems something of a miracle that he has survived thus far, bearing in mind the evident appetite for eggs of the older generation.
It’s with a strange mixture of delight and apprehension that I focus on every step of his darting dance. At times he/she seems fragile as the minutest speck of dust, swirling in the breeze and, suddenly caught in the sunlight’s beam.
How do I avoid feeling guilty, when my source of pleasure is Sparky’s arduous struggle for survival? But, then again; why do I fail to consider the sweatshops, in which they were produced, when I’m enjoying my consumer goods?