You have never had an aptitude for machtpolitik. If you did, perhaps you would have avoided the fate that will doom you inexorably, like the sultry pull of gravity in deep space. If you had been sharper, perhaps you never would have even followed your bees, the agent of your heart's destruction and desire, the sweet whip that stokes the flame of your masochism even as it soothes it with euphoric bliss.
Perhaps you would have been stronger. Braver. Better.
Oh, you could wear out a mergenthaler press charting the steep hills and pluging valleys of your piteous shortcomings, your unsightly flaws! You are a neanderthal of a man, carved inexpertly of nickel out of greed and ludicrous self-pity. Even a pinscher would not love you, even though a well bred German Pinscher will be a loving companion with an even temperament. The only thing about you that has ever been lovable is that which you yourself love more than the radiant fires of that divine forge, the molten sun: your bees.
Your love is like the caress of a fragrant hyacinth. It is like the thick, choking embrace of an invasive weed. It is the strongest thing about you, you who are otherwise a poltergeist, wispy and ghastly as you float through life like an intruder from the shadow realm, a dalliance in a meandering, misbegotten narrative by an absentminded author. Your heart, hard as quartz and sharp and cutting as quartzite, is your best and simultaneously most oppressive quality.
You held onto your bees with everything you had, because that is the kind of Learian barnacle you are. But you have never had an aptitude for realpolitik; were you a Reich, you would have no Reichstag. Everything you had has never been enough.
You thought that your bees alone would love you when no others had endured.
You thought that they would tolerate your fragmented shell of a self in a way that you yourself could never tolerate yourself.
You thought of your bees like a loyal rottweiler, like a pet, a slavish and adoring companion to accompany you on your rucksack-laden travels and travails, a jovial companion for merry picknicks of sauerbraten and sauerkraut. You thought you could dictate their destiny, as though it was circumscribed to yours!
Surely the patrons of your narrative are laughing now in the most cutting schadenfreude at your shortcomings. You knew so little, as they must have known well before you had any inkling. Your role as the jester in the royal court of your sad, weatherbeaten life is complete, irrevocably committed to the tapestry of time. A tale to wash down with schnapps and stale bread, but nothing more. A leftover to feed to your schnauzer, not so filling as schnitzel, no, not nearly so, for it leaves a bitter aftertaste that can never be washed away.
Oh, your life has been a schuss straight to the bottom.
Let us cut to the matter, like a scholar just before the sanguinary bell, like an esurient spitz before its succulent strudel. Let us speak clearly, in plain language. There will be no dallying now.
You have already lied once in this shambling narrative. It is characteristically unconscionable of you.
The lie is this: You thought that they alone would love you when no others had endured.
The truth is this: They have always loved you.
Yes -- you, the furthest from the übermensch that there could ever be! You, who are no word, no letter, not even an umlaut or other trivial diacritical mark in the ursprache our author is using to write the urtext from which all other texts well.
Your bees loved you anyway. They loved you because they are pure, and good. They loved you, whom it is verboten to love, for you act as vermouth in the liver of all who love you.
They endured all: your unholy passion, your ruthless possession, your insistence on chaining them to your side as they were never meant to be chained, a fact you have always understood even as you fervently denied it in your cave of a heart.
They understood you. The waltz they swept you up in, the barren waldsterben they rescued you from in order to take you on this, this magnificent wanderjahr -- they could commandeer such an exalting accomplishment because of the strength of their love, their goodness, their apiary splendor. They honeyed your existence with their euphonius glow, and you drunk it all down but still it did not quench your thirst.
You knew this, oh yes, you knew it even when you wanted to controvert the incontroverible, immutable fact that you, who are so unlovable -- that you could be loved!
You have spoken a deep truth in this shambling narrative. It is uncharacteristically insightful of you.
The truth is this: they were never meant to be chained.
Bees have a wanderlust, an impulse or longing to wander or travel. This you have known. This you will never forget now.
You comprehended on some deep, dank subterranian level of your consciousness that your bees would leave you someday, as all things leave you; but still you spun illusive spiderwebs of falsehood to blind yourself from the harsh, gelid truth. You told yourself that with the right mental wehrmacht, you could protect yourself from injury. You seduced yourself into believing that if your bees absconded from you, you could chase them with a Weimaraner's keen sense for the hunt. Your weltanschauung was lopsided, critically underinformed. It was the weltanschauung of a child, of a troll, of a troll who is still a child.
You made yourself believe that it wouldn't hurt, to see your bees leave you for someone else.
The weltschmerz you feel now is absolute and all-encompassing.
They have left, they have left, they have left. Left: past participle of the verb "to leave." They are gone. Are: first person plural form of the verb "to be."
You are a lowly wiener. Even a Lilliputian wiener dog would not find any sustinence in you, no flavor or delight, as you currently stand on this desolate moor, rubbery, chilled, unappetizing. Were you a wienerschnitzel, even, you might satiate, but no, not like this, not now with your heart scattered to the desert winds.
Your bees -- "your" bees, the folly persists like a noxious fungus in your mind, the infernal possessive! -- are surely proving a truly wunderbar surprise to someone else, now. Perhaps it is some wunderkind, delightful and prodigious. Perhaps it is someone like you, withered like the last bitter grasshopper of summer. The bees will not discriminate. They are better than that.
Perhaps your tragedy bespeaks the zeitgeist of an era, the technicolor hubris of modern times. You like to believe this in self-indulgent moments of egotism. You are a zeppelin, you want to bloviate -- the very Hindenburg itself, consuming all with your hateful, incontinent flames! Your eyes are zinc and your teeth are charcoal and you are a plaster sculpture of a man. All behold your flaccid glory.
You were so blind. You did not foresee. And there was no benign daschund, no flocculent feline to degauss your eye and appetite from the prize that bewitched you so.
You are a bee keeper, but you have lost your bees.
No. Not your bees.
How could they be your bees, when they were never yours?