Between the first and second day of my train journey,
I found myself becoming a little like the protagonist of Perfume —
drawn not by maps or plans,
but by scents carried gently through each town.
I stepped off trains without knowing where I would end up.
Sometimes, a familiar floral scent would stop me in my tracks
and bring a smile to my face —
“Oh… this fragrance.”
Other times, an unfamiliar scent brushed past me,
awakening something inside me,
as if a new emotion had quietly opened its eyes.
And suddenly I remembered him —
Grenouille, the strange, gifted, tragic genius of Das Parfum.
He wandered through dark alleyways,
guided only by the invisible trail of scent,
losing himself in the pursuit of perfection.
His talent was a curse,
yet in some ways, far ahead of his time.
He created the scent that made a crowd worship him,
even after committing unforgivable acts.
A monster, yes —
but also, strangely, a pioneer.
If modern perfumery exists the way it does today,
one could almost imagine him
as a twisted kind of inventor.
But today, I borrowed only one thing from him —
not the madness,
not the darkness,
only the love of scent itself.
So I walked where the wind carried me,
following the warm fragrance of flowers,
the sweetness hidden in small towns,
and the quiet poetry drifting through each stop.
This journey —
guided not by destination,
but by sensation —
feels like learning the world all over again
with every breath.
glorialeeart.blog 
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