Belle du Jour

By deputy editor Tiernán Berhe Ó Ruairc

It’s the feeling of emptiness when you’re not around that keeps me coming back, your presence in my life is similar to that of a bumble bee that keeps hovering around annoying me, yet wholly undeniably necessary for the world around me to keep functioning. Despite not being afraid of you every time you land near me I swat you away for fear of being stung, this is only temporary relief from your buzzing as each swipe angers you more and you of course inevitably snap stinging me and dying, with a single sting the whole system collapses and you’re gone from my life forever.  

As you pollinate the world around me bringing it to life, I become sick, with hay fever making your presence as much a discomfort as it is a blessing. The happiness the thought of you brings is incomparable to anything else experienced in life so far, the welcome sound of bees in the spring and summer bring hope and joy of long evenings and drinking, but of course with you comes the barely bearable aftermath, you of course are not a bee and rather than a runny nose and sore eyes the aftermath of you is the suffocating ball in my throat as I painstakingly comb through every moment of the days interaction to figure out what could of gone wrong. 

Being with you empties my mind of all other possibilities and in place of all other thoughts you reign supreme, its welcome your presence and what it signifies. However, just as with the buzzing of a bee as I sit at a bench the anxiety of not fully knowing where you are deprives me of my solitude, instead you imbue me with your buzzing and with your love even if you do so unknowingly. The way you discuss our symbiotic relationship where we provide each other with seemingly exactly what we want is going to be our ultimate downfall as we delve deeper into our desires, we become more aware that our symbiosis doesn’t work long term and rather your involvement in my hay fever and my swiping at your approach is killing us both. 

Invariably without you my world would collapse, with no other way yet available to express and have fun it has become apparent that despite the sickness your presence and work brings me, the fruits of your labour are far too pretty to live without. In your desire to collect pollen you rush to your beloved roses, which were planted for you, in honour of you, you enjoy basking in their soft petals and pretty scents. Alas there is a catch, not unlike the unforeseen consequences of your presence in my life there is of course consequences to my presence in your life, the beauty at the top of the green stems topped with yellow, red and pink heads masks sharp thorns beneath the surface. The sharp knotted thorns stab you as you try to bath yourself in the sweet scent of blooming roses, a sorry reminder that we are not okay.  

Everything is so muddled up now, in a sweet and salty mix of desire and numbness of alcohol. We’ve damned ourselves to eternal cycles of painful love and relieving animosity as we navigate pretty flower beds and hot summer evenings.  This whole story for us has become more and more bloated until it ends in one efficient and final swoop, swiping our love out from under our feet.