The bee, a mind within a labyrinth of minds, can tell the difference between one and zero between less and more between something and nothing at all— isn’t that tragic?
To be unable to tell judgment from justice, good from evil, days from weeks, but feel the emptiness buzzing, a Morse code heavy in your wings: beware, beware, be aware that you will die.
Do they mourn their dead? The loss of a synapse in their hive mind, a portly black-and-yellow exit sign, leaving the honey yellow stage of this mortal coil with a final ****** of a sword, a piece of yourself lost in the soft flesh of your killer, a suicide wound.
Perhaps we have more in common with bees than we would like; living in service to another, mistaking revenge as justice, giving away the best parts of ourselves until nothing remains, just the puncture marks of our existence writ in tombstones.
read an interesting scientific article about what bees know