To Bee a Bug — An Essay

The fresh, green leaves are rustling high above, the dew on the grass below splinters sunlight into a million hues, the cool spring breeze whips around me as I work. Blooms of every sort pop in and out of view, shades of ultraviolet, prisms of spectrum glinting around me. I am a honeybee, one of tens of thousands in my hive, working tirelessly to complete a simple task.

I am an individual, a single entity, perfectly evolved over millions of years for a sole purpose — to collect and create. I am but one bee, yet I am part of something larger. Something so grandiose and spectacular as to be beyond the reaches of comprehension. My singular purpose in life may be clear: to gather, create, nurture, and eventually, die. My works are small, perhaps insignificant, but, in time, amount to something so dutifully ambitious, so endearing, so utterly awesome, as to give irrefutable purpose to my short life. To give purpose to life as a whole.

I am one individual, a bee, but I am part of something greater, a community, a web, the universe. To be a part of a movement the likes of which no other planet, no other species has ever experienced or even dreamt of dreaming of, is exactly why I am a bee. As Mahatma Gandhi wisely said, “Whatever you do in life will be insignificant, but it is very important that you do it.”

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