Our problem started simple. Envy, I guess. I was a bee attracted to a flower, along with many other bees, but the bee knew not of her place. The bee wanted to become the flower. Incapable of doing so, she circled the flower a thousand times over. Adoring it. Loving it. Dreaming of it. Then, learning it was flawed. Figuring out it was not so much of a beauty. Had it flawed back then? Had she not noticed? Or was it like the law of diminishing marginal utility?
Those were the questions I asked myself when I first grew tired of her. The problem of envy has expired. She bothered me still, though for reasons I cannot yet perceive. The other bees are blind. Oblivious to both my incapability and my turn of thinking, they teased me: "Why don't you be a bit like her? She's sweet, she's timid... she keeps to herself her gaze and touch. She's the dream girl." As if the fact that I have no one to hold me close is related to me being 180 to her kind of girl.
And as if what they think of her were true at all.
[M]
