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Sea stars are beautiful. They are thickly embroidered and their shape is pleasing. They rest at the bottom of pools, which are also beautiful, with emerald green and mauvey pink weed, orange lichen and ripples, splashes and shadows. Their companions are anemones, camouflaged crabs and rambling sea-slugs with iridescent backs and seeking horns. However, their world is limited to this one rock pool: unlike me they can't wander around peering into other rock pools, stroll along the beach or amble through spotted gums or casuarinas. Nor can they blog, settle down with a good (or not-so-good) book, visit art galleries or go to the movies. The pleasures of grandchildren are unknown to them

Their capacity to regenerate when they are hurt is enviable, especially as I age and fear the losing of bits, but I think I prefer sending my food to my stomach, rather than extruding my stomach to search for and ingest food.

 
 
 
 
 
 
On the whole I'll stick to being what I am. There isn't much chance that I'll be wrenched from my home in the tiny rainforest of my front yard and transported to SeaWorld, plonked in a barren pool and made available for passers-by to stroke, although come to think of it I may be carted off to a nursing home.

Feel free to pat me! A SeaWorld starfish

 

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