On my love of sensualism

I would never have imagined that philosophical life, which seems to privilege inquiry, abstract considerations, mathematical rigor, and mental activity more generally, could open me up to ‘sensualism’ but it has. Perhaps it is that dwelling on how all transient things hang together points me back to this particular thing here, revealing to me a greater appreciation of this white husky or flitting sparrow insofar as this dog or this bird fits into the general scheme of things. Or perhaps it is that I mean to become more adroit with speaking of the specific tones of this melancholic love song. No matter how my ‘sensualism’ came about, it seems as though it is here to stay. I feel the skins of grapes on the backs of my teeth, the textures of leaves and feathers on tips near the nail beds, the scraping of pant legs on wrought iron railings, the crunching of bark shavings beneath boot-steps, the tadpole look of swimming cherry pits and stems, the smell of strawberry knuckles long after the strawberries have been eaten, the hay smells and musty smells and sweet sweat smells, the old book smells and all the odd old house smells. Could it be that I like the feel of newfound moles the most?

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