In a field of white sweet clover sits an apothecary’s jar.
Inside the tightly closed and absurdly lidded glass madly hums a hundred and one bees.
It is late spring and the clover is in bloom.
Furiously the bees pound and writhe against their glass enclosure. Throwing themselves angrily against the clear, unrelenting glass, they give no thought to forewing, hindwing, spiracle or the like. They are frantic with hunger. They will gladly sacrifice little parts of themselves for a chance to taste that sweet, sweet clover…
But the glass never breaks.
The bees do.
And slowly, slowly the jar falls silent until all is lost but a dream.
Sometimes, living with a chronic mental illness is like this. Placed in the middle of a beautiful, thriving world we cannot reach, we destroy ourselves trying.
I do this.
A lot, actually.
*sighs heartily against the glass*
I need to learn another way.
Post-note: Sometimes crap like this just needs to be said. Apologies.