There is darkness and there is light.
There are men and women.
There’s food.
There are restaurants.
Disease.
There’s work.
Traffic.
The days as we know them.
The world as we imagine the world.
-Well, you’ve been sick.
-Not sick, just unhappy.
-Well, it’s the same thing.
One day, son, you’ll be in love.
And you’ll be miserable.
That’s your karma.
Truly in love and miserable.
Overwhelmed with grief.
People are hit with all that they’ve lost.
Lovers they never had.
All the departed friend.
They think of all the people they’ve hurt.
First, overwhelmed with grief.
And then no sense of smell.
That’s the disease.
Life goes on.
The food becomes spicier, saltier, more sweet, more sour.
You get used to it.
The greater loss are all the memories that are no longer triggered.
Smell and memory were connected in the brain.
Cinnamon might have remained you of your grandmother’s apron.
The scent of cut hay could evoke a childhood fear of cows.
Diesel oil might bring back memories of your first ferry crossing.
Without smell, an ocean of past images disappears.
-What shall we do now?
-Well, now you could invite me back to your place.
-Don’t know if I will.
-Well, you…you can just start walking home, and I’ll follow you.
I can’t die alone.
That’s how it’ll end.
Without anybody loving me.
It betrays itself.
Your body, it takes away the color of your skin.
And betrays your spirit.
Pissing and bleeding and fucking puss is coming out of your ear.
I’ve seen it. I’ve seen it!
At the end, you’re all alone.
You die on your own and it gets all dark.
All your body, it turns to fucking soup.
First the terror.
And then a moment of hunger.
It’s still out there.
The world.
Slowly things return to normal and life goes on.
People do what they did before as best they can.
Within a few weeks, taste becomes a distant memory.
And different sensations take its place.
In restaurants, it’s all about offering another person dinner, letting yourself be waited on, listening to the trickle of wine and the clink of glassed.
Not only has the food received special attention, but also the temperature of the food and its consistency.
And we tried it all, from the freezing cold to the scorching hot.
It was dry, it was moist, it was crisp, it was spongy, it was crunchy and it was all at the highest level, up to and including the dessert- a light pudding with caramelized nuts and a bright orange sorbet, and a dark blue coulis on blackberries and blackcurrant.
Chew on that.
Life goes on.
My ovaries are crippled.
My eggs are no good.
Because of not eating.
I pretend that I’m not that into them, that I have an interesting job.
You could smell there was something wrong inside her, like something damp, something from a basement.
I make myself go and visit her grave.
I go there to feel guilty, you know?
I thought I would feel guilty for the rest of my life but, actually it’s starting to fade.
-You’re an arsehole.
-I am.
-It works. It works. You’re making me yours.
-I’m an arsehole.
-So am I.
-A couple of arseholes.
-Mr and Mrs arsehole.
“I think it’s OK to panic now.”
And that’s basically what the world does.
Rage.
Anger.
Hatred.
And then the loss of another sense.
All the unaffected can do is wait.
There are two movements now.
There are the people who run through the streets, grabbing all they can.
People who don’t believe in anything but the end of the world.
Then there’s the other movement- farmers going out to milk their cows, soldiers reporting for duty.
Those who believe that life will go on somehow, or just don’t know what else to do.
People prepare for the worst, but hope for the best.
They concentrate on the things that are important to them.
All the things beyond fat and flour.
The cold must have hit them like a blow from a club.
That’s how the darkness descends upon the world.
But first the shining moments.
A shared flinching of the brain’s temporal lobe.
A profound appreciation of what it means to be alive.
But most of all, a shared urge to reach out to one another.
To offer warmth, understanding, acceptance, forgiveness, love.
It’s dark now, but they feel each other’s breath, and they know all they need to know.
They kiss, and they feel each other’s tears on their cheeks.
And if there had been anybody left to see them, then they would look like normal lovers caressing each other’s faces, bodies close together, eyes closed, oblivious to the world around them.
Because that is how life goes on.
Like that.
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