flight of the bumblebee

one

There are bees inside the walls, humming, always humming, swarms upon swarms nesting in the walls. Never once have they revealed themselves, but I know they are there. Their little feet tap faintly against the wood of the walls as they build their nests.

I seldom have a night's good rest for my ears do not desensitize to this humming as another's might. Temptation to tear down the walls is high; one more day and I will do it, so I tell myself. It isn't the fact that I am afraid of the bees, I don't think. It is the syrup that pools at my feet, catching my every movement, slowly but surely lulling me to sleep.

It is the static noise of this humming that keeps me sane, keeps me anchored to one place. And yet even with this stability, the anchor is constantly ripped away. Panic ensues, my ears searching desperately for the humming, the harder the search, the further away the bees will drift until there is no more. A crazed frenzy of colors and silence until the familiar monotone of a bee's wings returns.