Scented Men

My dreams are so vivid that I usually think to return to them if given the opportunity -- even when they are angering or irritating or just sort of plodding on and on. And I wake so frequently that I have many of them. A lengthy series of disconnected brain movement making no sense in the long run and having precious little staying power. I read a few chapters in a book before preparing to be annoyed by punctual birds a smidge past five in the morning. I sometimes query this notion of input and its effect as a stimulus in dreams. Even the daydream sort. My mood can change for weeks on the basis of the book I'm reading. This is something I've both noticed and feared.

It's gorgeous sunny out today. I will make a point of putting sunscreen on the part in my hair to avoid getting a sunburn whose aftermath will look like the most embarrassing sort of scalp malady. The stuff I use on my face smells of sweet oranges and makes me wish I was gulping down great glassfuls of fresh-squeezed, pulpy juice. In the end, I would feel sick from drinking too fast. But a girl gets greedy when she hasn't had juice in a while.

My father's cologne is a potion that conjures memory and nostalgia and a strange and distant comfort. Even when he's no longer in the building and the scent is only an olfactory echo of his strides through the hall. Nostalgia has had a cruel sort of effect on me recently. I can almost not bear it. I've realized a desire to be free of sentiment and to see things for what they are. But I wonder if I shouldn't put off such edicts until after the mostly tentative high school reunion that is supposed to be happening this summer. Without the convenient tool of reminiscence, I imagine that event will be unbearable.

Why oh why will these paints not dry? They're watercolors for the sake of someone to be named later.