On Scents
I have always loved scents.
The soapy innocence of baby snake powder,
the ripeness of persimmons,
the overused but undeniable freshness of grass after rain.
Roasted marshmallows,
hot cocoa in winter,
burnt cinnamon,
mint-laced tobacco,
even the damp warmth of a towel after a shower.
And yet, I am struck by the paradox of absence—
that humans, gifted with scent,
are doomed never to preserve a single moment of it.
And so, we chase its recreation.
Like the fleeting frost of an early morning.
And lament our own sensitivity.
Language, too, is the same.
Like the stillness that follows after breathing in something beautiful,
when words stumble, fail,
and the weight of an unshareable moment
leaves only emptiness behind.
As a child, I dreamt of becoming a perfume critic.
Now, I dabble in fragrance blending.
I remember watching Perfume and feeling its sickness rise through me,
its madness,
its pursuit of purity.
How does one measure purity?
Desire? Love?
Like the scent of the moon—
and then, nothing.
At noon today, a sharp, piercing smell rose through the air.
And suddenly—
memories I had either forgotten or willed myself to forget
came rushing back.
I recalled something Shi Tiesheng once wrote:
"Of all things, scent is the hardest to explain."
I thought of Horcruxes.
I wanted to call it
preserved nature.
Proustian memory.
Scent. Music. Light.
Pheromones.
Predestined abstraction,
a thread of desire at the borders of connection.