A worker bee lives in a hive of thousands. Each bee, once emerged as a full grown adult, will shuffle through all the jobs appointed for the hive, one of which is collecting nectar for honey. In the span of it’s life a single bee will collect the equivalent of about a teaspoon of honey; it’s entire life in one cup of tea. When it’s over and they die, other workers remove the body, it’s death having no impact on the prosperity of its hive. And yet, the hive is made out of a collective of single worker bees, functioning as a unit based off of the many individual parts. This is the struggle of the worker bee, the loneliness of being part of something bigger than yourself. When I first came to Philadelphia, I was immediately absorbed into this bigger picture. Being a fraction of the whole is unavoidable, but I found power in deciding which hive I would call home. Philly fits me, I don’t even know why, but I have a feeling this is where I’m going to find my teaspoon.