The early morning haze, lifting gradually from the senses, light returning slowly to sight, and the body regaining feeling as if, for the first time, existing. It’s slow, at first; everything’s foggy. Then, as though turning a volume knob slowly to it’s maximum setting, noise returns to the otherwise silent world.
Petrichor lingers in the air long after the rain has ceased, the clouds have parted, and the thunderous applause has calmed. The opening line of Spring being accompanied by the sweet smell of Honeysuckle. The unique aroma that accompanies old books in the forgotten wing of the Public Library as you navigate your way through the card catalog to find that one book you’ll need to finish your report for third period English.
“Perfect!”, you say to yourself, placing the finishing touches on a brand new article. “I’ve written something that adds nothing new to a topic I know absolutely nothing about in a field so saturated that the only way I’m going to give this article any traffic is if I spam it constantly across multiple social networks!”
You remember, a while back, at the theatre, y’know, before the picture would start? That sound check for the stereo equipment would come on, and the noise, you know, that low hum, it would sound so far off, right? And it’d grow, and grow, and grow, as if you were walking up to this explosion just waiting to happen, all casual like. And, before you knew it, the sound was deafening, and your ear drums had exploded, and you’d have blood trickling down the side of your neck, and you’re looking around, confused. What the fuck just happened?, you’d ask yourself, as you bumble around, holding the sides of your skull as if trying to keep your brains from leaking out on to the soda-coated floor below your seat.