Bees in My Blood

There are bees in my blood. They hum, they buzz, they sting.

They are the restless architects of my thoughts, building hives in the hollows of my mind, filling the chambers with honey and venom.

Creativity, they say, is a gift. But no one tells you about the stings, the sharp pain that comes with every word and every story that claws its way out of you.

No one tells you how it feels to be both the beekeeper and the hive, how you must care for the swarm as it eats you alive from the inside.

I want to write about the things that haunt me, the things that keep me awake at night, the things that I can’t seem to shake no matter how hard I try.

I want to write about the sea and the stars, about the vastness of the universe and the smallness of my place within it.

I want to write about the ache of being alive, the weight of memory, the way the past clings to me like salt on my skin.

I want to write about the bees; the constant buzz of creativity that drives me to the screen even when my hands are trembling and my mind is a storm.

I want to write about the stings, the pain that paves its way out of me. I want to write about the honey, the sweet, golden reward that makes it all worth it.

I want to write about the chaos and the beauty, the mess and the magic, the pain and the joy. I want to write about the things that are too big to hold and too small to see, the things that are too raw to touch and too real to ignore.

I want to write about the things that make me human, the things that make me alive.

I want to write about the myths and stereotypes, the constant feeling of doubt, the everyday challenge to write while living with parents, not having a very silent peaceful home, yet the urge to create and pour my heart out and learning along the way.

I want to write about the different writing styles, the experiments, the freedom of writing whatever I want.

I want to write about the journey of being an indie writer from a non-English country, the struggles and the triumphs, the moments of despair and the moments of hope.

I want to write about the bees in my blood, the swarm that devours me from within, and the way I tend to them while they eat me alive.

I want to write about the madness and the sanity, the chaos and the calm, the darkness and the light. I want to write about the things that scare me, the things that inspire me, the things that make me who I am.

I want to write because I must, because the bees will not let me rest.

I want to write because it is the way I know how to survive. I want to write because it is the closest thing I have to magic right now, to alchemy, to turning lead into gold.

I want to write because it is the only way I know how to make sense of the world, to make sense of myself.

There are no rules here, no boundaries, no one to tell me how to write or what to write. There is only the blank screen and the bees. And yet, this freedom is a double-edged sword. Without rules, there is no map, no guide, no one to tell you if you are lost.

There are only the myths and stereotypes; the idea that writers must be tormented, that creativity is born from suffering, that madness and genius are two sides of the same coin. I wonder sometimes if I am feeding into these myths, if I am romanticizing the very thing that keeps me up at night.

But then I remember the bees, and I know that this is not a choice. The stings are real. The honey is real. I must keep writing, even if it kills me.

Living with parents is its own kind of madness. There is no silence here, no peace. The walls are thin, and the voices seep through like smoke. There are arguments over trivial things, the noise of dishes in the sink, the constant sound of the television in the background.

And yet, I write. I write on the floor of my bedroom, in the quiet hours of the night when the house is finally still.

I write because I must, because the bees will not let me rest.

They are relentless, insatiable, and they demand to be fed.

There are days when the doubts are louder than the bees. Days when I wonder if I am fooling myself, if I am just another amateur writer with big dreams and no talent to back them up. Days when I question every word.

But then I remember why I started writing, it’s not for fame or fortune, not for validation or praise, but because I had no other choice.

The bees were in my blood long before I knew what they were, long before I understood the cost of their honey.

I am learning as I go. There is no right way to write, no formula, no secret recipe. I experiment with different styles, different voices, different rhythms. Sometimes I write raw feelings, emotions. Other times, I write long sentences that don’t make sense.

I am not bound by rules or conventions, by slangs or cultural expectations. I am free to write whatever I want, however I want. It’s both a blessing and a curse. It’s a vast, open sky, but it’s also a void, that threatens to swallow me whole.

But I am sane. At least, I think I am.

I have learned to live with the bees, to coexist with their buzzing and their stings. I have learned to find beauty in the chaos, to see the honey in the venom.

The bees are a part of me, and I am a part of them. We are bound together, inseparable, and there is no escaping the hive.

So I keep writing. I write through the noise, through the doubts, through the stings. I write because the bees demand it, because the honey is worth the pain.

I write because I am not alone. Maybe there are others out there with bees in their blood, others who understand the sting of creativity and madness. Trying to find beauty in the wreckage, to turn our pain into something beautiful.

The bees are in my blood, and they will not let me rest.

But that is okay I guess.

I am learning to live with them, to embrace their stings. I am learning to write, to create, to pour my heart out onto the page. In the end, that is all that matters.

The bees are in my blood, and I am alive.

-----

Thanks for reading!

K🦋