Perfume as medicine again. And again. When will this need end? This need for appeasing the pain? When will the pain end? There are too many days of it. I know I have no reason for it. From a logical point of view absolutely nothing is wrong, on the contrary. But I can’t get rid of the mental anguish. It’s with me when I’m chewing my food, when I smile to my friends, while I cuddle next to my partner. It’s with me today and it was with me yesterday. It was with me at night, keeping me awake and gripped in fear that it’s going to be with me forever, poisoning me slowly, killing me in the end. I’m fighting against it every time I get out of bed, forcing myself to breathe deeply, to wash my face, to put on makeup and get on with the day. Every time I’m choosing a perfume to wear it’s a conscious effort to cheer myself up, to remember good things, to soothe and console. Today it’s Musc Tonkin and I confess is not really working because nothing much works these days and today is one of those times when I’m just riding the pain wave. I let it engulf me and hope I won’t get swallowed altogether. Still, even in the midst of blackness, I feel the beauty of this perfume. It is more than beauty. It’s mystery. It is not meant to be worn to feel pretty and put together or clean and confident or even sexy and sensual. It is meant to be worn like an amulet. To remind you that are things beyond our grasp, that life is big and terrible in its magnificence. It doesn’t care about you or me, it just is. That we are impermanent and transient and we don’t matter but life in itself matters. That my tumult today is irrelevant, less than the tiniest blip on the radar, but that the fact that I’m alive and part of this big hot humanity soup it’s important. That I’m connected to others and they in their turn are connected to more and this has to amount to something. A sense of some sort. These connections between us, the only sense to life I can grasp. And Musc Tonkin is bodies. A lot of bodies pressed together, warm and alive. Naked and connected, because I’ll be damned if it’s not the only thing that keeps the spectre of death away. When I wake up in the middle of the night, drenched in cold sweat after dreaming about my loved ones dying, hugging my partner’s body it’s the only thing that gives me a bit of comfort. That human warmth is present in Musc Tonkin alongside the elemental, cruel forcefulness of life. It smells both very close, intimate and cozy but also remote and threatening somehow, majestically so. In my mind, although they don’t smell at all alike, I relate it to Vero Profumo Onda. Because they’re built on big, bold proportions and they have an almost mythical aura, it’s as if they capture the time axis from the beginning of the world until the shadowed end. Musc Tonkin is more human, Onda is more transcendent and spiritual, but they both have a shamanic presence, the feel of being swept into something eternal, that’s been part of our souls ever since the first people walked the earth. The mystery within us. The inexplicable yearning we feel when we’re staring at the sea or a starry sky. The electrical vibration between lovers. The way we can speak without words. A sudden, irresponsible but irresistible attraction towards something or someone. Sliding towards darkness in search for the key to our existence. There is no key. The key is simply existing and discovering ourselves. Incessantly and fearlessly. Accepting who we are, our innermost wants and desires. Because if we don’t dig deep, what would be the point of digging after all? And because Musc Tonkin partially smells like a salty, warmed, sexed up vagina I’ll leave you to meditate on this quote from the movie Nymphomaniac directed by Lars Von Trier. The quote is explicit and because of the fact I share this virtual space with other authors I will use asterisks in lieu of some letters but I’m sure you’ll all understand. So it goes : “Dear everyone, don’t think it’s been easy, but I understand now that we’re not and never will be alike. I’m not like you, who f*cks to be validated and might just as well give up putting c*cks inside of you. And I’m not like you. All you want is to be filled up and whether it’s by a man or by tons of disgusting slop makes no difference. And I’m definitely not like you. That empathy you claim is a lie because all you are is society’s morality police whose duty is to erase my obscenity from the surface of the earth so that the Bourgeoisie won’t feel sick. I’m not like you. I am a nymphomaniac and I love myself for being one, but above all, I love my c*nt and my filthy, dirty lust.”
Dear all, in this lifetime and the next we can only be yourselves. And we should never stop or believe we have ended the search of our true selves. It’s the foundation of everything else. And on this road to self discovery even a drop of perfume can prove to be inspiring.
*Image used may be subject to copyright. It’s a still from the movie Perfume – the story of a murderer.