Friday. Ventured into one of those large chain drugstores today for some mundane necessity – toothpaste, I think. An assault on the senses, as always. Fluorescent lights that hum with a maddening frequency, competing scents of artificial fragrances and cleaning chemicals, aisles overflowing with plastic-packaged promises. And the music. Some algorithmically generated upbeat pop designed, I suspect, more to induce spending than genuine cheer.

  Found myself momentarily trapped in the 'Air Care' aisle. Walls of sprays, plug-ins, gels, all promising to make one's dwelling smell like 'Linen Breeze' or 'Tropical Waterfall' or 'Cozy Cottage'. The sheer effort mortals expend to mask the actual smells of life – cooking, bodies, damp wool, decay – is remarkable. They seem to crave olfactory anaesthesia, a bland, synthetic homogeneity. The rich, complex scents of the world I grew up in – woodsmoke, damp earth, wild herbs, animal musk, the sharp tang of real magic – would likely be considered offensive now, something to be sanitized and deodorized into oblivion.

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  Picked up what I needed and escaped back into the relative sensory calm of the cold street. Even the exhaust fumes felt more honest than 'Ocean Paradise' in a pressurized can.

  Finally back in the apartment. The silence is profound after the store’s cacophony. Still feel the need to scrub the artificial 'Spring Meadow' scent from my coat where I likely brushed against a display. Plain, strong coffee tonight. No frills, no promises. Just coffee. Grounding. Necessary.

  Lyra