I am a bee inside of a soggy box that was all shaken up before the rain hit. I could smell that rain coming, electrified buzzing influenced by the bustle of busy, cruel hands as some like to think, or by sorrowful clouds that mimic human emotion as I like to think. I could be tiny and lethal and fuzzy. But then of course, I wake up and I am no longer a bee.
The world today is a little like that cardboard box, falling apart and soon replaced by plastic and Styrofoam, and those of course harm the environment. Despite this, I am still dreaming of bumblebees and boys, so everything must be at least a little bit okay.
I can count down on one hand now, the number of days until I fly out to sunny (and f*cking hot) Spain, for almost but-not-quite three weeks. I think I am going to melt and if not, I’ll turn a beautiful shade of lobster red, rather than my usual milk bottle white. Regardless of my red skinned shoulder patches, I am still smiling a very cherry lip balm coated smile. The summertime sadness Lana Del Rey used to sing about hasn’t hit, so I think I’ll call that a victory. Isn’t life all about those little victories? Poets call life a game, but I call it a war and I’ll paint my face up win another battle, or cover the scars and tragedies that become my sad and shiny soldier medals.
But somewhere in the world, a child holds his mother’s hand, a cat stretches in the warm pools of sunshine strewn across unevenly planted flowerbeds. Sometimes it rains in the middle of June, but the bees still go living on until September. I once saw a wasp in late October. They say the future’s out to get you. (The Hoosiers, Worried About Ray) But bees don’t have much to worry about except flowers, even though they’re dying out.
I am going to live like a bee and never worry about anything except the flowers I meet along the way.