Radiohead. Coffee. Caffeine gradually making synapses and neurons glitter and flash like the shiny furious rustling of honey-bee wings in the hive after sunlight makes them stir from their cold torpor.
There’s someplace I should really be right now. But I’m not.
In truth, there’s not enough light today to soften up the honeycomb — the maze of hexagons vexing and labyrinthine, unyielding as frostbitten stop signs.
Today I’ve been thinking that perhaps my undeveloped super power is something along the lines of bee vision. That I can look at someone and read the ultraviolet phosphorescence of their honey guides — the where and how of their hidden or withheld or unplundered sweetness — even when no one else can or cares to. When the sweetness has been plundered too roughly or too many times so that there isn’t any left, or when there’s something wrong and there was never any sweetness to begin with.
This knowledge is, of course, only one small facet of a larger maze of complexities. It is an incomplete, and therefore extremely dangerous, knowledge.
These secrets trouble me.
But in case you were wondering if I notice/d you, or if I can see through you, the answer is quite possibly Yes.
Yes, I see you.