Why oh why, you Epicurean you

My profile needs to be updated: “Considering becoming an Epicurean.” Not that I am an Epicurean now, but my nose could pick up things Sherlock Holmes missed and my tastebuds could root out poison for paranoid kings. I wrote my profile about two years ago, after a wine and nougat tasting. I had just become interested in perfume and suddenly I could smell all the things Luis Turin had promised. My soul was peeling outwards. Therapy was what done it. Therapy and the desire to be healthier that had brought me there.

I have since cursed therapy for opening me up to a world that I did not want to live in; cursed it for making me more aware of my behaviour and triggers, and therefore less content ignoring the consequences of being self-destructive. Sometimes it feels like swearing off ice cream and then relocating to an ice cream factory. Usually, though, a good perfume is like anaesthetic and I remember what drove me to therapy in the first place.

This is meant to explain the shift of this blog from squishy blogposts to some aesthetic sampling that I hope might lead me to something to do with the next twenty years of my life and an emotional landfill. Warning: there will be no lifestyle spreads or trendy made-to-look-DIY recycling, no styled pictures of food, no tight jeans or bundled scarves in summer.

This is my soul, people. My soul in the sense of some weird thing that thinks it is ‘I’ (knows it is ‘I’ and rolls its eyes at my denial? Or stupidity). I do not believe in, well, anything, very very literally and honestly I do not care to. Very practically, I am looking for healthy, at least occasionally. Sensual things tell this seething soul that for all intents and purposes this world exists. And sometimes sensual things interrupt the erupting volcanoes of my emotions and teach me some geology.