by Emily Whyman
You are in a bee’s nest of your own construction. But you are queen, drone, and worker — you produce honey, royal jelly, wax, and propolis all on your own and call yourself successful in your exhaustion. You all do. These hundreds upon hundreds of solo hives, these vacant rattling things in which you buzz all the fasterlouderquicker to fill its echoing emptiness.
Talk fills the silence. For a little while. But your hive — all yours, just like you wanted — grows and shrinks with your hopelessness that you carry like a ghost over your shoulder.
But look. The tree drops shadows like leaves in the mid-morning sun. See her sway, see her dance, these grey mirrors of she that grows. Can you feel it? Flow into the ravine of this life. Take the time to rest your soul within the heartbeat of a moment. There is space inside all this noise. The tree grows for your soul, your hand’s work feeds her dance and sway.
Put it down, throw it away. There’s no peace in blue-lit trenches, these black mirrors, no matter how deep you fall and tap and allow time to slip past like so many missed sunlit minutes.
But the breath and eyes that are me cannot take a photo and hold up the Space to show the gasp and blindness that is you. You grasping, tragic thing, who can look at the sun and see nothing but just another day.
So I let the white wash of your world grip and roar, safe here in the space inside all your noise. That’s how I know the pebbles of your problems are mere grains on the shore. The real boulder is the one you every shackle to your bruised, bloody, and broken ankle before climbing higher up a sheer cliff because you can’t see the mountain for its gentle slopes.
About the author
"My name is Emily Whyman, I am Australian writer of fiction and non-fiction, although storytelling through fiction is my true calling. I live closely with nature, on a farm in the sub-tropics, and get my ideas and inspiration by waiting for the land to whisper them to me."
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