Gemotions

He paced his apartment, the worn wooden floorboards creaking under his weight. His sculpture, a piece of raw, organic beauty, was now the centerpiece of a high-end furniture store’s display window. He’d envisioned it in a quiet garden, not amidst sleek modern sofas. His hand repeatedly went to his chest, as if attempting to physically pull the memory of the piece back into his grasp. He shouldn’t have left it there, unprotected, vulnerable. He should have fought harder for control. The thought of potential buyers treating it as a commodity filled him with a desolate feeling.