I was born a worker. That is my caste, my role, my infinitesimal part in a vast organized society. I work, i obey, it’s all i’ve ever known. Efficiency is my deity. I am Worker.
I look like a worker, act like a worker, WORK like worker, but my…soul…my soul wants, needs…my heart…my heart yearns, desires..
When we march in our pheromone-mapped lines, i long to break out..to follow scents which tease my trembling antenna; those strange and fearful, amazing and tantalizing scents i am forbidden to follow..
I long to lead my brethren in intricate patterns of tread, to make the ambling gods above sigh in pleasure, at the sheer beauty we create in movement…
And of home..i long to PLOW down that horrid honeycomb decor, hexagon on hexagon upon hexagon! Stacked above and below! Repetitive and monotonous! I froth with frustration at such unnatural regularity! Enough to drive a delicate soul to madness!
(How i rant and rave! Forgive me. Sometimes, i can barely stand it!)
For my roof, i long for sensual curves, flaring swirls and tumbling loops, divine arches and exquisite forms..oh! I would create such a monument! Each polished speck of sand a trap, for the heat and light of that glorious heating orb that hovers over all. A testament to the industriousness of my species! A marvel of creation, enough to place us at the sides of the very gods!
(Again, i am moved to near blasphemy. I plead your pardon. And now onto matters closer to the heart.)
My Queen. Aah, my Queen of unparallelled beauty..her obsidian gaze spears my soul, her tiny waist of such delicate form as to make my pulse thunder!…but i look on her with empty gaze, carefully schooled in apathy, while my heart struggles like a trapped bird in my carapace and sounds boom against my antenna like a pounding surf.. (sigh!)..
Her beauty deserves to be richly framed in swirls of silk and gossamer glory! I would beseech the silk worms of the Far East to spin her skeins of sheer diaphanous ribbons! Beg the graceful fireflies to endow her elegant antenna with their flattering light! I would drape her bulbous, life-giving bottom with feather pollen of every colour and anoint her gleaming body with the distilled scents of every sweet blossom within my reach!…
But alas! I am but Worker. My caste denied her touch, her very regard. Brainless, clueless virile drones alone may touch her and revel in her sensual delights.. (Oh, the thought of it is enough to scald my bleeding heart!)..My only bitter consolation is the necessity for such odious occurence only once in her blessed lifetime, after which only specially bred worker-maids, of the most delicate touch, may groom her in her elevated..(and no doubt, tortured!) solitude. My Queen! Owner of my mere Worker heart, for whom i would morph to Soldier on her softest demand!..
..But i work. I push, i lift, i carry. My limbs, no doubt made to coax beauty from the very earth, continually weighed down with nourishing debris; my mind, created to imagine myriad passionate patterns, crammed full with schedules and conditioned to chore! chore!! chore!!!; my eyes, crafted to fill with ecstatic tears over my creations, blinded by endless hours of dumb, work-filled shuffling in underground caverns…
Oft have i stolen away, to gape mournfully at the pulsing eggs my Queen uncomplainingly begets daily.. (locked away forever in her hexagonal chamber, oh be still my broken heart!)..;Oft have i stared at the writhing larva through a sheath of blind tears; Oft have i had fantasies of grabbing as many as my articulated limbs may carry, and running away to establish a hill of my own; one no stranger to art, to creation, to love…
And yet, oft have i turned away to labour. My agonies unending; evermore my bane, my artistic soul…