Suddenly see the world in a different light

Smells have magic. Right? Right. For example, cinnamon, or sweet vanilla. Almonds, patchouli, chocolate. Strawberries, basil, fresh grass.

Every scent has a secret, a history. Each is a distinct character. In fact, the entire world is a scent. More precisely, millions of scents.

Just as all colors mixed together eventually create white, so too all scents combined create the scent of the Earth. Right? Right.

"But what scent is mine?

" "Exactly, what scent?"

An echo echoed in the void. Impossible? Not true. Possible. The laws of physics are nothing when magic occurs. And magic was there. It was scents, the murmur of words, the laughter of light robes. Two ghosts floated in the void. Ghosts? Yes, ghosts. They were a cluster of dreams. Wrapped in light shawls, they tangled in long skirts, tossing dark curls from their foreheads. Pathetic? Yes. But in some places, there are dark, evil, terrifying spirits. Or friendly, smiling, helpful. Human. And here were pathetic spirits. Exactly. Yes, no different. These spirits liked scents differently. They fell asleep lulled by vanilla, woke up amidst lavender. In the real, unpathetic world, they would have woken to the scent of warm sheets. But here it was different.

Besides, all this is a myth. You shouldn't believe it. Why? Although... Although not. You should believe this myth, this lie, while reading. To create a better atmosphere. And then forget it, just as you forget the scents of summer, giving way to autumn, which lingers in the October rain.

Then you remember the scent of wet leaves, puddles, and clods of earth squeezed out from under the gray grass by water drops. And you remember these scents until winter comes. And the scent of snow.

But let's stay with the scent of chocolate and the image of ghosts. Let's leave philosophical analyses of olfactory memory aside. Although, in fact, this entire text is a small analysis. Perhaps it's better not to dissect the scent? Maybe then it'll lose its magic?

Let's go back.

* * *

"What scent? What... What? What?! Panic rang like a pure note in the void. Sound doesn't travel in a vacuum? Nonsense, it does.

"Sweet. Otki, tki, łdki..." the ghost played with the syllables, completely ignoring the other ghost's hysteria.

"Sweet? Chocolate, vanilla, almonds. It was, it was, it was!!!" the apparition thrashed about in colorful robes, angered by its companion's traditional approach. "New, new! Not old! Sweet...! No, no, no! It was!"—well, pathetic spirits aren't exactly eloquent. And despite their idyllic appearance, they can be very impulsive. Like now, when, in a fit of rage, a hysterical spirit tore out another's long, dark lock. It would probably surprise those who think pathetic spirits are only pathetic. But what exactly does pathos mean? Not necessarily fluffy white clouds and soft colors. Sometimes pathos can be very avant-garde. Like ghosts. Or angels. Right? Right.

Let's get back to it.

* * *

Surrealism. A pure form of daydreaming. Creativity that leads nowhere, heavy with feathers. Creating ghosts, angels, unreal creatures, beings without deeper meaning. Forcing thoughts into abstract work, without result.

Seeking scents, the trajectories of delusions wander, subconsciously transgressing laws in search of the unconscious, replacing the void with matter.

- Smell! New! New! New! Void! - ghosts are surreal. They are a dream, a hallucination.

The imperfections in their creation are nothing, a vain detail. Because dreams are imperfect, an outline.

Everything smells. Even abstraction. Hilarious silliness, irritatingly real and cynically unreal. What am I striving for?

- Victoria! Haha! New! New! Abstraction, andronics! Old!!! New! New! - well, joy can be limitless. And hardly coherent; in fact, it is a purely schizophrenic form, the most beautiful figure, without unnecessary embellishments. It is perfect in itself. And flaws? They are an emphasis.

I strive for a void. Madness? No. Words are nothing, and consciousness is a delusion. I strive for the void, not in the exact sense. Metaphorically.

Mysticism, mystery. Is this the void? No. What is it? I don't know.

* * *

And the spirits, dancing in light robes, absurdly reveled in the new scent of the void. Remember, it's all a myth...