You knew, you knew ever since first beholding their midnight luminescence in the alpenglow of the mewling newborn dawn, that day of poison and promise that would blossom for you like a virgin rose of such agonizing subliminity that nothing, not alzheimer's disease, not the icy cackle of mortal fallibility, not even mere human dereliction, would ever take from you:
You knew that they were yours.
It's funny, funny and cruel, the pinnacle of paradoxical angst: the workings of the feeble sapian cardiovascular. How the anschluss of your soul into another's domain might occur more swiftly and irrevocably than the famished ingestion of an apple strudel by a feckless youth. How you might live your life in a parade of endless gunmetal dawns and dusks, oppressive in their menial monotony, disquieting in their desperate desolation -- and then one day to wake from your coma of aspirin and opium, to find that you have a heart, a soul, a life outside your life. Your aufeis breast has been mercilessly melted, your eyes have been wrenched open with the force of a tempest, and in front of you is nothing but warmth and light.
There are eight of them. Eight perfect aureate bodies. Eight sets of mighty stygian stripes. Your heart races upon an autobahn of color and radiant lustre, no time for brunches at the automat or trips to the laundrette; your life is a bildungsroman, a novel that focuses on the maturation of, and the intellectual, psychological, or spiritual development of the main character, and now, oh now, it has just begun.
They blitz effervescently through the air like jet-propelled cherubim. It would take a blitzkrieg to capture them, but surely it is a crime to cage such inestimably resplendent creatures.
It is a crime, but oh, you want, you want, you want.
You have never been an exalted being; you are base in both your qualities and your lowly appetites, for sodium and dry earth, for bratwursts and beekeeping. The cobalt sky rumbles its heavenly disapproval of your inclement ways, but it cannot stifle you, any more than you can resist coveting these apid treasures, oh no! This is a story that you can never tell at Kaffeeklatsch. This is base and odious, and you know, but oh, you cannot, could never, feel shame.
You think in this moment, when everything is spread before you like a honeyed feast of souls, that you are the concertmeister of your fate.
How can you not foresee? In the future, when you are contorted in the paradoxical paroxysms of the Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease that is your powerless, pitiful life, you will wonder how you could have been so tragicomically blind as to your own foibles.
But you are blind. You do not foresee. And there is no benign daschund, no flocculent feline to degauss your eye and appetite from the prize that bewitches you now.
Oh bees. My bees.
This is your folly! You think they are yours alone, but they will never be yours, no more than the sun gleaming in the milky sky is your sun, no more than the deli where you purchase sustinence is your deli or the mighty diesel engine of the locomotive which ferried you to this picturesque spot is your train. You are a patron, but not a proprietrix, never that.
This is what love does to you. This euphoric concupiscent delirium.
You gaze at the eight owners of your heart. You are like a young dirndl in the throes of her first aching, excstatic flush of youthful fruit. No, that is painting you far too generously. You are like a doberman pinscher in darkest appetite.
And yes -- yes. You love.
It is no doppelgänger who grabs the net in slippery hands. It is not the doppler effect that sees you hoisting it in your feeble, emasculated arms. Oh, you are dreck! But you are also a god. You are Zeus in all his stormy splendor, you are Odin on his throne of beasts.
The edelweiss wings of your lovers beckon you, a bewitching siren on ersatz waves of grass. You gleefully shipwreck yourself upon them. Your heart is a thousand degrees fahrenheit, hot enough to burn, scald, evaporate.
Oh, what Fahrvergnügen!
They cannot escape the net. They are too pure. It is the same seraphic innocence that makes them so utterly, heartbreakingly intoxicating to you.
You would throw a fest, if it wouldn't get you such flack, if the mere conept of celebrating your splendid newfound acquisition with frankfurters and party hats like some lavish Führer did not fill you with such obscene revulsion.
You will not throw a fest. All that you need is here, glimmering and gold.
My bees. My bees. My bees.