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“Aristaeus was the first keeper of bees. One day all his bees died, punishment by the gods for something bad that Aristaeus had done. The gods told him to sacrifice a bull to show he was sorry, and then return to the carcass in nine days and look inside it. Well, Aristaeus did just what they said, and when he came back, he saw a swarm of bees fly out of the dead bull. His own bees, reborn. He took them home to his hives, and after that people believed that bees had power over death. The kings in Greece made their tombs in the shape of beehives for that very reason.”
Bees and the death of people.
Up until then I’d thought that white people and colored people getting along was the big aim, but after that I decided everybody being colorless together was a better plan.
It was a ridiculous question, though, because once you know the truth, you can’t ever go back and pick up your suitcase of lies.
Have you noticed the more you try not to think, the more elaborate your thinking episodes get?
How nobody is perfect. How you just have to close your eyes and breathe out and let the puzzle of the human heart be what it is.
