People mill all over the floor of the poetry festival, like a hive of busy bees, but I’m not there with them. I’m hiding in a corner of the second floor, hoping nobody will see or find me, my eyes full of tears.
Why am I feeling this way? I couldn’t tell you even if I wanted to, just like you can’t explain why the bee decides to sting you. A happy event like this isn’t supposed to leave you sad, and yet here I am.
But despite all the confusing noise in my head, which almost becomes overwhelming, there’s a quiet voice which says, “It’s better to feel this, than to not feel at all.” I’m only human after all, any emotion is better than none.
So I smile through the emotions and tears, and walk down the stairs again. To become one of those busy worker bees milling about the hive of poetry, making the sweet honey that we call spoken word.