Everywhere I go I step on little dead bees.
Nowhere is safe. You can be anywhere, anytime, and just like *that* – Crunch. Scrunch. Squelch.
Quiet kinds of noises – like stepping on individual grains of crisp cereal rice. Sometimes you might not even realise you’ve just done it again, and hey – there’s a thought. Do you know what’s underneath your foot right now?
Nowhere is safe. Don’t assume you are innocent. Nobody is – except the bees, that is. At least, we assume so.
If only they would tell us what’s going on. We’ve got a fairly good idea. We’re pretty sure that pesticides and heat waves don’t do any good. But are we correct about being saviours? Are we doing the right thing?
Maybe the bees are just sick of this world. We’ve not done tons of good – in fact, we’ve lost billions of tons. Tons of and tons of earth, ore, rock, dust. Now we’re getting towards the bottom of our stacks and all the bees are dying.
So we say, “find out what drives the bees to discontent,” and we do everything we can but ask.
So I asked some bees about their story.
Clyde was a successful pollen farmer until he was struck by an overwhelming kind of spontaneous nihilism one day and collapsed.
“Why do anything but lay here?” Clyde asked me from his spot on the floor in the stairwell of the humanities building. I struggled to think of a good response. I could not. Feeling myself starting to succumb to nihilism, I crushed Clyde under my foot and went on to find a more pleasant hospice.
Abraham, unlike Clyde, has made the choice to die on an indistinguishable footpath in the CBD as a means of protest against the American Military’s focus on nanotechnological swarm bots.
“You want Draconian AI?” He tells me more than he asks me, “Give bots a hive-mind. We were here first. Don’t drink the water. Don’t breathe the air.”
Realising that Abe had more integrity than me, I grew jealous and felt that my job was threatened by his steely determinism. I crushed Abraham under my foot in cold silence, too.
I do not think the bees need to be here anymore.