creative nonfiction by Clare Foster
Five senses. That’s what people say. Five distinct senses that each trigger a different part of the brain. They’re what we use to understand the world around us. Each is important in its own way. Touch, taste, hearing, sight, and smell. I consider myself lucky. I can experience each sense. Some people cannot. The brain is a crapshoot that way I suppose. You can never really know if you’ll be lucky enough to be born with these five super powers. For some, like me, these senses aren’t independent. They morph into one another, causing me to associate them together. This phenomenon is called synthesia and only 3% of the people on this rock have it. It makes the world a lot more interesting, but also much more overwhelming.
Smell. The sense that tickles your nose and turns your stomach. Smell and taste, obviously, work hand in hand. They’re connected physically with tubes and valves and complex systems that all work tirelessly in tandem to help the beings of the Earth understand each other and their surroundings. Smell, for me, is the sense that I would be willing to sacrifice first. I wish I could forget the smell of gunpowder. I wish I never knew the smell of alcohol on my best friend’s breath. I wish I never had to experience the gut wrenching smell of tears.
Sight. The sense that makes your heart stop and flutter. Sometimes, music is visual for me. I can associate certain music with colors and patterns. It is a beautiful mess of neurons that cause this, and I appreciate it. Seeing music makes me feel more connected to it. Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata is a mix of dark blue and purple, swirling around one another. Queen’s We Are The Champions is orange and red, pulsing and swaying with the sounds. Bohemian Rhapsody is lime green and light blue. Sight is the sense that matters the most to me, and being able to experience music visually makes me feel unique. For me, the world wouldn’t be tangible without sight. Sight overwhelms me the least out of my senses. I never find my mind clouded by it. I never find something all that visually frightening. I can binge watch horror movies for hours and never need to close my eyes. There are times, though, when I have to cover my ears.
Sound. The sense that brings you to tears, or makes you laugh, or makes you afraid. This is the sense that frightens me the most. This is the sense that I cannot bear at high volumes. This is the sense that can strike fear into my heart. This is the sense that can make my stomach drop. Music is a colorful bounty of happiness for me, but when too loud can easily become frighteningly overwhelming. Loud noises can make me shake with fear, or cause instant panic attacks. Sound is the sense I fear most out of all others. It can be beautiful, but it can also be the most terrifying thing to experience. The sound of a fire alarm, for instance, is a bright white flash, constantly banging over and over again in my head. Whenever I hear one, my stomach clenches and my vision blurs.
Taste. An overlooked sense for some, but something that is usually quite strong for me. Taste is not the most overwhelming feeling for me, but there are aspects of it that cause my brain to malfunction. In my brain, tastes often have colors as well. Eating any spicy food, for example, will cause me to “freak out” a bit. It’s a bright red hot color that seeps from my mouth to my head in seconds. It’s almost painful sometimes, depending on the level of spiciness. Sour flavors are yellow and electric-green. Mint is royal blue and evergreen. Smoke is dark grey.
Touch. My enemy. Touch can be the hardest sense for me to experience. I am not a person who likes being touched. Personal space is vital for me. Claustrophobia is something I have struggled with before, and I find myself enjoying my time with friends and family more when each of us has her own space. Touch never blends with another sense, thankfully, because it is quite intense on its own. My skin crawls when I touch someone’s shoulder sitting next to them on the train. My palms sweat when someone hugs me for too long. Touch does not frighten me so much as it unsettles me. It can be just as overwhelming as any other sense, and often is. Weirdly enough, I find myself feeling insecure because of my discomfort towards touch. It’s the only sense that can be shared between multiple people, and yet I dislike sharing it. Maybe touch discomforts me because it’s the only sense that does not mix in with my other senses. Maybe it’s because other people scare me. Or maybe it’s because I’d rather be alone.
It’s frightening to think that every sense known to mankind is just simple signals being sent to the brain. These signals can be easily recreated and twisted. Is the world that I can see, smell, taste, hear, and feel nothing but signals to an over imaginative mind? Why am I part of that 3% who experiences things differently and more intensely? Is this sense-intensity what causes my various anxieties about ridiculous things? I may never know. But I am grateful to smell the fresh rain on cold asphalt. I am grateful to see the cobwebs forming around the corner above my bed. I am grateful to hear the birds cackling as they fly overhead. I am grateful to taste the sweat running down my lips after a workout. I am grateful to feel the first snow of winter tickle my skin. I am grateful to experience this world in the ways I do.
