Once upon a time in a land 385 years past its prime there lived a young bee who's one and only desire was to find the perfect flower. It didn't matter what the flower looked like, how the flower smelled, how tall, how short, or what color the flower was; the bee only wanted to meet a flower that he could be happy with, that he could call beautiful, that he could pour his heart into and feel real affection back. The bee didn't care about pollination, aesthetics, or anything superficial in that sense; the bee only wanted to make others happy with his work and to have someone to share his happiness with.

For the longest time the bee could not tell the flowers from the weeds; he would bumble about bewildered, not knowing where to go. Eventually however, with single-minded persistence, the bee found a small patch of real flowers in the rolling, endless field of weeds. Seven there were, and all seven were beautiful in their own way.

The first flower immediately caught the bee's eye. It's beauty inspired a great fluttering in his heart, and he felt compelled to lavish it with praise that he meant with every millimeter of his being. As time wore on, the bee gravitated closer and closer still to the flower, but flower became alienated when the bee, in his foolishness, felt too profoundly affectionate about it. The flower eventually confronted the bee about this, and the bee, acquiescently, decided to bother the flower nevermore, however much it may have hurt him.

It was several months before the bee truly recuperated. But time is the great healer of things, and its heart was soon mended. It was at this time that three other flowers forayed into the bee's life. The first was very forward, and it and the bee had a great many conversations. But, eventually another bee took its heart, and, understanding, he let it go. The second flower never really expressed any interest outside of the casual for the bee, and the bee accepted this also. But the third flower was the one that would take the bee's heart. They would talk endlessly, they found out they had so much in common, and they seemed like truly two of a kind. Still languid from past happenstance, however, the bee was slow to take to the flower. But as time wore on, the bee grew a great affection for the flower, greater than anything he ever had before. The flower truly understood him, and the bee thought likewise of the flower, and it seemed the perfect match.

One day, after an extended time away from his beloved flower, the bee became deeply saddened as the flower said that no bee would take it to the great hive three months thence. Feeling a tremendous surge of affection and sense of purpose, the bee offered to take the flower. The flower, however, said that certain things had to be done in order for it to go with him however. Not dissuaded, the bee had confidence that everything would fall into place.

The next month was one of continuous joy, and the bee knew that, whatever happened, he had the flower, and this gave him joy without bounds. He showered the flower with praise and admiration, and even gifts. It was not long before the flower was all the bee could think about, but it was a more than welcome diversion. But then one day it was revealed to the bee that the flower admired another bee. He wept and wept, and could not sleep a single hour, and the cold reality remained on his conscience for days and days. After interminable deliberation and mixed emotions, the bee finally decided that the noblest recourse would be to give the flower a chance to go with the other bee. It was not an act prompted by selfishness, but rather one of utter self-disregard, because the bee had realized that its emotions ran a lot deeper than it thought, but whatever made the flower the happiest it could be in the end, he felt, would be the only thing he could do, even if it meant his ruination.

A bee only has one sting in its lifetime, but who is to say it cannot sting itself?

The bee fell into a great malaise for a long time, refusing to blame others, putting the sole onus upon itself. Although he never recovered, and perhaps never shall, he did move on. The fifth flower he had been in communication with for a while, but never previously gave too much consideration. It was a different flower, not your clichéd rosebud by any stretch of the imagination. But as he gravitated toward it, and began to like it, it would jerk sharply away. In unremitting desperation however, the bee made a fatal mistake, and, though he may never know what it was, it became clear that the flower would not agree to be with him.

Spiraling and flailing about hopelessly, the bee was unable to find any other flowers to be with. When he finally mustered up the courage to ask a sixth flower, who had been abandoned by another bee that shared his name, it asked an older bee instead. Desperate and reeling, he asked a seventh flower, only to once again get the cold shoulder.

Alone, hurt, and helpless, the bee could do nothing; because whether it was indecisive action or decisive inaction, he had stung himself. He learned that some obstacles are insurmountable, that some odds are too high, and that, no matter how deeply you felt, it wouldn't matter in the end because no one will ever know, or care to know, and the feeling will not be shared.

By love be damned, and by damnation be never loved.