Honey.

My mind is a crate full of bees.  At peace, they hum quietly while they work.  Coming and going as they please, every thought is recognized and stored away in an easy manner.  I go about my day without resistance, until the hive is disturbed.  A passing comment, a bad attitude, a funny look, a feeling of incompetence.  I don’t have any control over these happenings, so why should they bother me?  Immediately, thoughts slam around violently, aching to escape.  Scenarios flash before my eyes.  I’m forced to live out every outcome, over and over again.  Unable to move, I remain fixated on the problem I’ve just created in my mind.  Withdrawn from the outside world, I seem merely drowsy, like a bee on a hot summer’s day.

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Honey.

Organic.

Farmers’ markets where sturdy hands and chapped smiles greet you like an old friend.  Little tubes of grainy lip balm fitted in bee-covered labels that sit atop illuminated counters.  Supermarkets with olive bars attended by cashiers with nose rings.  All of these things, highly prized and favored in my eyes, have a few traits in common.  Besides being utterly pretentious, they were immediately deemed organic in my mind.

Organic means safe, wholesome, worthy.  I didn’t realize a perpetually disheveled boy would soon win the title of organic, and also favorite, for himself.  Neither safe nor wholesome, entirely too pretentious, and completely worthy describe the victor.  To say the least, the race has been wildly intriguing.  To ask the runner’s perspective?  “It happened organically.”

Organic.