This is a story of how we are often so fixated on what is important that we lose sight of why it came to be so. We lose ourselves in our desperation for company and forget the initial reasons that laid the foundation for your expectations. This is the encounter between the bee and the rose with no thorns.
The platter of crimson red roses a source of delight, and down he swooped, into the mountains and valleys shaped by the intricate curves of the flower petals. The distinction in every flower's topography, a surface to reckon and ponder over the mysteries of life. It is as though you were staring at a mirror reflection of yourself, rippled with the thoughts for mischief and madness, daring to develop into a plethora of shapes and sizes; just simplicity manifested in diversity.
But the bee knew nothing about this before. He could not differentiate the brick-red flowers from the rosy pink ones, or between those which emanated a pleasant scent and those which the smell of stale pollen wafted from. They were roses, and plenty at that for him to pick, but a decision that required no thinking at all. It was often the one which was closest to him, the one which seemed fat and juicy enough to satiate his appetite. He could not recognize the Floribunda from the Grandiflora but at the heart of it all, he knew not the roses which bore their thorns with pride and those that sulked without their imposing presence.
It was not until chance that he landed on a petal bed, its surface molded in such a majestic way that he sat perfectly on it. Like a dew drop hanging precariously but perfectly still from the tip of the leaf, the bee made his way to paradise, lost in thoughts and lost in his direction of life. And a storm came to pass, so the bee had to make haste, seeking shelter beneath the now-flooded contours of the petals. And it so came to be, that he accidentally stung himself (with such cruel irony I admit) against the thorny surface of the rose stalk. He stifled a shriek but knew no more about the experience he had just endured, and the only sight of familiarity was the tinge of red that was oozing out with ease and purpose. He recognized it as the color of the rose, of all the roses in fact, but it seemed different. There was a different feel to the "red", perhaps the lingering sense of touch that he suffered from the prick or the breathtaking discovery that the ostensibly harmless rose bore something so hideous and dangerous.
But it only enticed him further and aggravated his passion for mystery and his lust for curiosity. Within minutes the sensation had subsided and he had forgotten what it was that made him cringe earlier. Yet now he was filled with rage for having been made to suffer the almost-unbearable pain. He swore to himself that if there came to be a possibility, he would strip the rose of its thorns and never condone such the being of such horrid plants which ruin the beauty of nature's ecology. The rain had ceased and the bee made his way home.
But days came to pass, and the bee had this inexplicable urge to remember what he had gone through. The tantalizing pain which was titillating by some crude reasons. And he knew he had to.
He dived down, past palette with all shades of red and under the canopy of rose petals, he searched frantically for thorns. And it was to his utmost dismay that none of the roses had thorns. He remembered his wish and hoped it hadn't come true and suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimmer of the glistening thorns in the sunlight, reflecting off droplets of blood-red (blood?) particles.
But the bee stopped short in his tracks for he knew the moment had passed for him to treasure what was there. It was the thorns that had brought him closer to this addiction and it was too the thorns that made him scorn the plant. He had decided not to be decisive earlier and now it wouldn't make sense for him to go nearer and seek to find the thorns which he had so adamantly treated with contempt.
He was right. And he was wrong. Upon further inspection, the thorns were not what they seem they were. When he thought he had gotten stung by something, he couldn't have been more right. "stung" indeed, by the sting of a bee, his own kind and what a shock it was. That was no ordinary rose plant (pity he took such a long time to realize this); it was covered with withered bees embedded within the stalk and he could almost hear the cries of the inmates, now drowned out by the trickling sound of the crimson red droplets off the tip of the leaves. Red, sticky dew.
His attraction to the plant did not wane just yet. There was something intriguing that drew him all the more closer. And each time he went nearer he knew he might get stung and the horrendous sight was all the more visible to his naked eye but he did not stop there.
The incessant need to look and to be able to even speak to her from within just placed him at ease. The occasional shots of pain did no permanent damage, but it was the perpetual need to keep a distance and never be able to come into full contact with the plant that was hurtful. But he knew that he would never escape, as his brothers now do with their heads buried in the stem of the plant.
And the bee grew to cherish what he could see and what he couldn't see. He learned that not everything is often what we take them to be and when we finally realize why we felt this way about something, we probably lost its importance somewhere else. Sometimes the addiction is inexplicable and perhaps, immoral and against your conscience. But the desire to fulfill it reigns control over your actions.
And so the bee did come and go, and he did die on the very same bed of petals, on the rose without its thorns.
