Bed Feels Remarkably Good
Ilene’s Christmas cactus
Sometimes I reach a plateau where everything feels right. The sheets are soft and comforting. The woven cloth feels like fleece stroking my skin when I shift my body. Pillow coddles my head as it softly presses against the side of my face.
Wind snapped a tree last Sunday
I notice that the air smells like air. The mixture of tiny bits of everything that has spread a vapor image of its dispersed totality.
This is good. This is how I think reality smells like. I’d consider calling this, “normal”.
Actually these physical circumstances are optimal and rare in my world.
There are times when sheets feel coarse like jagged spikes. They tear and poke at my skin between the mattress and the covers.
Same surface 2 different focuses
I sometimes notice that the room air smells like molecular compounds that are bonded together to construct a room and the objects in it.
The carpet. The drywall and the paint that covers it. The metal lamps. The thermal curtains. The three printers. The television set. The books in the bookcase.
They don't smell like the actual objects, but like the separate components of the materials they are made from.
Dancing tulip with imaginary castanets
The reed basket by the bed smells like the molecules that formed the original plant. (I keep 2 sets of earphones in the basket to listen to the TV when I watch so I don’t disturb my downstairs neighbor)
There are times the chemical compounds smell alien to my understanding and catalog of common scents. It is what happens to my olfactory information during times of unusual pain.
It's a sweet, cloying, unnatural, chemical toilet, urinal cake, type smell. Vaguely familiar. A blue shade of fragrance. (I think it's nerve signals and sensory information short circuiting simultaneously)
These worded thoughts insisted I get up and write them down.
I had been planning to write something to fill the space between pictures I have taken recently. This will do nicely.
Wide Weird Wonderful World