Heavenscent

Heavenscent
by: Ali Derwish

A growth started within me. A tiny knot in my gut; groping. A weird feline-like whimper. And then; like a nucleolus it is split and duplicated outwards. I try fighting it, but that feeling of lust, of contentment, well it just makes it so darn hard. Why is that I always feel like I can overcome it as it begins but as the feeling escalates to a crescendo I pretty much know the fight is over? “That's it boys I'm throwing in the gloves.” So there is only one thing left to do, fix the fix. And to add to the mental anguish of having lost this psychological warfare is the self-realization that I WILL regret it.

And it draws me closer, waves of its unsung melody wash over me.

I have a secret stash, one I have threefold times thrown and threefold times regained. This cute embarkation cost me a shirt and a pair of pants so I have since decided to keep one, for safety reasons (‘but of course’). My own little “in case of fire, break glass”. Though I store mine in a metal box.

With a key,
á miniature,
fitting its keyhole,
á miniature,
made for pleasures;
non sequitur.

The key is at my parent’s house so I make the 30 minutes trek, by car, which feels like 300. And of course the trip back just doubles the rate of paining anticipation.

Finally home I go to my closet where I keep my shrine; blank grey-silver, sharp corners, almost staring back at me non-quizzical. The way a confronted teenager looks at you when trying to hide mischief. I open it, and take out my scent-cents. A synthesized piece of paper, round and the size of a coin, usually very colorful (mine is “sunflower yellow”). Its signature is vanilla-blossom. I place the cent carefully on the tip of my index-finger, and take a deep sniff. I nearly end up with the cent inside my nose. My eye-lids flutter, I feel light-headed, flashes of drenched colors flicker in a rapid sequence like a slide projector gone rabid. Sweat accumulates on my forehead. But I don’t stop; I sniff in series of 3 quickies and one extended inhale, changing nostril between each go. Getting a high practiced to a fine art, surgical in its execution and method. It gets to the point where I have to sit down and catch my breath. So I rest on the side of my bed. I return the scent back into the box not wanting to drop it and have it damaged from the dirt and dust on the floor.

“More.”

A stranger’s voice in the back of my head.

I keep sniffing, now just aimlessly, and then I lay down letting out a sigh of relief. The back of my shirt feels damp. Immediately guilt kicks in. 'Sup man, missed me? It’s your conscience again, here to make you feel like utter shit. You'll know when I'm finished so as usual no interruptions ok? Let a man do his work'.

The perversion of this act, I know it’s wrong. Filthy, filthy, filthy.

I'm a sniffer. A goddamned sniffer.

We are meant to use our noses for breathing reasons solely, we have a developed a keen sense of smell in order to avert possible dangers, it has not been created FOR BASELESS FRIVOLOTIES! The intricate design of infinite sensory cells is NOT THERE FOR YOUR ENJOYMENT YOUNG MAN!

The multitude of lectures and moral preaching’s play over in my head, from past days and the present. All the messages, the subliminal and the explicit, from the TV, the Prints, and the Internet bombard me. The image of a giant assembled from hundreds of TV-sets and monitors all with an image of either a disapproving higher authority or an out-stretched index finger. The transformer-like Giant is also shaking his index finger at me. And they all embody one point, our perceptions: smell, taste, hearing, sight, touch, are not to be used for esthetic and/or satisfactory reasons. We manage fine by bypassing these. It has lead to the down-fall of man in every past generation.

My God is this how a nervous breakdown feels like?

But it’s hard not to avoid it. And it has never made any sense to me, it brings happy memories and images and I have never harmed anyone or even indulged in a filthy act as a side-effect, using drugs as a gate to other activities, say such as carnal ones. Some people do but I don’t. Of course I have been tempted but the simple enjoyment of being close to nature, my own, and the one that used to exist, before we cut the umbilical cord, is good enough. My parents tell me their parents had fields, FIELDS of flowers, and natural fruit and vegetables that were untouched by man’s hand. There were no mutilations – these so called mutations.

And I am left to my own device, feeling immoral and dirty. And left with this huge burden of trying to be law-abiding and pure. Knowing in my heart of hearts that next time it will be harder to resist. I feel like breaking down in redemption. Sweet tears of deliverance cleanse me.

I reach for my Drug-Awareness pamphlet discarded on my window sill; they are handed out in town by volunteers of The Cause. I usually walk past them or around them but this one was being handed out by a cute girl whose smile caught me off guard. She suckered me in. It has a check-list for minimizing temptation. Most of the bullet-points are pretty silly but some seem viable enough to follow and in turn be useful. “Idle mind and body is easier to lead and thus be misled. Keep yourself busy with Gov-Approved physical and mental exercises.” Examples given were Sudoku, History, Jogging, Swimming and assortment of other boring things safe from esthetic and sensory pleasures. The pamphlet also advised the reader to pursue activities in groups. I’m guessing that way it’s easier to make sure nobody goes undeterred and actually start enjoying themselves. So I have to keep myself busy. Keep every hour planned-out and be exhausted at the end of the day. Problem is that I’ve followed this method countless times and it always leaves a gap in my life, like I’m missing out on life even though I’m having an “active life”. So I’ve started to rebel by being passive, as discreetly as I can manage but that also leaves me with the same feeling of emptiness.

I sit and ponder for hours with the cent still in its box. And as I grow weary and restless I take it out once more and put it close to my nose. There is not much scent left, the chemicals have simply evaporated, it’s just a bland piece of paper now. I put it back in the box, hide the box in the closet and put the key in my jeans-pocket. I rip the pamphlet into neat shreds; throw it in the waste basket and tie the plastic bag up. I go to sleep with my last thoughts on what signature I’m going to buy next.