I don’t know about you, but contrary to the image of perfume promoted in advertising, I don’t use scent primarily to attract. Although being perfectly dressed up in the right fragrance for a night out is one of life’s greatest pleasures, it also struck me the other night, as I settled down in the warmth, coming in from the cold, post-work, that I often instinctively reach out for a perfume, one I sometimes already have in mind before I get in the door, craving it, selecting it as it rises up in my mind – often a rich, deep extrait, something complex that I can sink into – and apply it to the top of my hand. My brain is then changed. Thickened. Comforted, by the plush and the poetic olfactory.
We sit in private conversation, in sublime connection with the self, as I read, watch a film in the dark, or just think, separated from the sometimes unpleasant purity of awareness; nerve endings cushioned from harsh reality: healed, like balm.