The five senses

She lives a life of constant over-stimulation.

There is music in all noises. A rhythm in every clink, creak, swish, plunk, bang. A melody in the wind and the hum of voices, sirens, busses, her creaky old house, doors, running water in the shower, coughs in between symphony movements. This music of the world haunts her ears and when she needs a pause from life's composition, she listens to music. Music purposefully created by her fellow beings. Piano and vocals and instruments and rhythm and sound. Sound.

She lives a life of constant over-stimulation.

Walk outside and see colors bursting out of flowers, the sky's veins in the bare winter branches, telephone polls that dance. The fall and rise of emotions on people's faces. Their energy streaming out of them -- colliding with other's auras. Heart strings connecting from chest to chest. Knotted, tangled, cut, stitched together. The beauty of a majestic mountain on a sunny day can bring tears. A sunset, peace. Water, comfort. Blue. Sight.

She lives a life of constant over-stimulation.

The smell of friends lingers on jackets hugged, blankets and pillows slept with, or wafting in the air--an unexpected delight. With an olfactory memory, sensations come rushing back at the smallest scent. A sweatshirt left at a friends house is friends, school, the boy she liked, summer. A face wash to a fall sleepover. A pungent man on the bus to Malawi. A shampoo to Mexico. Hand sanitizer to nsima. A lotion to a song. People smells. Food smells. Book smells. Country smells. House smells. Scent.

She lives a life of constant over-stimulation.

Brushing arms with a stranger on the street. The best kind of contact is unplanned: your knee rests on hers, thighs touch on shared bus seats, a hand on the small of her back, a surprise kiss on her forehead. Skin on skin. Human on human. And then there are fingers. She loves to trace her fingers on your arm, through your hair--tapping out rhythms on your skin or creating shapes with fingertips. Contact is electrifying. Touch.

She lives a life of constant over-stimulation.

If it were more socially acceptable, she would taste more. Bobby pins taste like blood. Blood tastes like metal. The perfect cup of tea tastes like London. Ice cream tastes like comfort. Bad coffee tastes like traveling and rest areas; good coffee tastes like self-dates and contentedness. Sometimes when she makes dinner just right, it tastes like her family home. Medicine tastes like resigned deliverance--bitter and hard. Taste.

She lives a life of constant over-stimulation.

And though they sometimes make her feel insane, she wouldn't trade her senses for anything.