You, The Sensorium: Writing Through the Five Senses

You wake in the hush before noise.

You do not open your eyes,
not yet.
Instead—
Feel.

Your sheets are not cotton.
They are scabs of clouds.
They itch like unfinished dreams,
like syllables stuck under the tongue.

The floor greets your soles with a bite.
Cold.
Like the first draft of a story—
untouched, unblessed, unloved.
You step.
A creak.
Language is born in bones.

Smell.
The kettle begins to flirt with fire.
You do not need to drink.
You inhale the idea of warmth.
There:
the scent of ink bleeding through paper.
A whiff of orange peel from yesterday’s poem.
Cinnamon lingers—
memory’s residue.

You remember your grandmother
without remembering her face.
Because her scent was cloves and old books,
and how they loved each other quietly.
Like metaphors.

Taste.
Now the spoon.
Now the mouth.
But wait.
Don’t eat.

Taste the silver.
Taste the silence hanging on its edge.
Bitter. Like restraint.
Sweet. Like finally letting go.

Try biting a word—
"longing."
It cracks like sugar glass.
It dissolves.
Inside your cheek,
a thousand unfinished letters.

Try "revolution."
It is hot.
Unripe mangoes.
Rust.
Gunpowder & honey.

Your tongue is a compass,
and this kitchen,
a terrain of unspoken truths.

Hear.

There.
The ceiling fan whispers secrets in rotation.
The walls creak in semaphore.
Outside, the birds practice jazz.
Improvised.
Chaotic.
Divine.

You open the faucet and listen—
not for water,
but for rhythm.

Drip.
Drop.
The sound of punctuation.

A pause.
A breath.
A question that doesn’t need answering.

You remember the sound of chalk
on slate.
The sacred scratch
that birthed alphabets
and rage
and the slow crawl of creativity
from static silence to symphony.

Now See.

Now open your eyes.

The light does not enter.
You exit into it.

Your coffee isn’t black.
It’s the void before creation.

Your pen isn’t blue.
It’s ocean,
storm-throated,
and aching.

You look at your hands.
They are not hands.
They are puppeteers of soul.
They twitch.
They dare.
They defy.

You look in the mirror.
Your eyes are not your own.
They belong to every character you have not yet written.
The villain.
The girl with one shoe.
The man who speaks to clocks.
The whisper on the back of a postcard.

You blink.
You become them.
You vanish.


---

Now you write.
But not on paper.
No,
on air.

You etch meaning
into candle smoke.
You graffiti your doubt
on moth wings.

You scribble over cityscapes
with the ash of your metaphors.
You paint verbs
on the tongue of stray dogs.
You tattoo your similes
on skyplanes overhead—
trails of ink that only poets see.

You do not use a keyboard.
You tap rhythm
on your own ribcage,
each beat a stanza,
each gasp a punctuation mark.

You write by rearranging dust.


---

You Sense to Create.

You taste thunder
when a thought strikes.
It’s metallic.
Crisp.
It tells you to listen.

You touch sorrow
when the pen stalls.
It has texture—
like dry bark peeling from a tree
that still remembers rain.

You smell fear
in the crease of rejection letters.
It is musky.
Like unopened envelopes
filled with the stench of maybe.

You hear joy
in children mispronouncing stars.
Joy echoes.
It loops.
It demands to be repeated.

You see truth
in the absence of color.
When the canvas blinks
and still says,
“I dare you.”


---

Your Senses Are Not Passive.
They are anarchists.
Instigators.
Alchemists of narrative.

They gather data
not for memory,
but for meaning.

You step into a market—
not for groceries—
but for dialogue.

Each mango vendor has a voice.
One smooth.
One cracked.
One hoarse with too much waiting.

You smell spices not for flavor
but for character backstories.

You touch coins
and wonder who else has held them.
What debts.
What betrayals.
What dreams were paid in five-rupee hopes.


---

Now, create a world.

Begin with smell:
a planet where people communicate through scent.
Grief smells like salt.
Love like wet bark.
Lies smell sterile.

Now add touch:
Gravity changes based on your guilt.
Heavier hearts sink into the ground.

Now taste:
Rain tastes different based on your thoughts.
Hope makes it lemony.
Envy, metallic.

Now sound:
Laughter is currency.
Wars are won not by force
but by the highest frequency of joy.

Now sight:
Eyes project memories,
not tears.
To cry is to show someone everything you never said.


---

You are no longer "you."
You are the orchestra
and the chaos before it.
You are sensation
before language.

You no longer ask,
“What should I write today?”
You ask,
“What do I feel in this moment
that no one else can hear
or smell
or taste
or see?”

Then,
you turn that into text.


---

You, the Sensorium.
You, the unorthodox scribe
who writes not with mind
but with skin.
Who edits with earlobes,
revises with nose hairs,
and publishes with fingerprints.

You are the rebellion
against the sterile blankness.

You are the five senses—
no,
you are the sixth.

Creation.


---

And now,
the page is not blank.

It is scented,
savoured,
scored,
seen,
soft.

It is you.