An Army Marches

Someone somewhere nearby is cooking onions and meat. The smell fills my apartment. It's both comforting and humbling to realize that, no matter what you're feeling, no matter what grand or dramatic ideas are going through your head, your body will respond to the smell of food. Even if you're exhausted and depressed and feel like you can't pick yourself up from the little ball on the floor you've curled into, the smell of food will reach through the darkness and find you, causing your stomach to perk up and grumble.

This was to be a very different post. When I signed in, my brain was filled with the image of Munch's Scream, which I take as a visual depiction of an artist's soul. Artists are said to have great souls, grand souls, souls bigger than the rest of us mere mortals. But maybe they're not great or grand, just more twisted. Just screaming and screaming for the rest of us to open our eyes and see what they see, all the darkness and emptiness and pain. It's hard, though, to write about darkness and emptiness and pain with the aroma of grilled onions wafting by.