Quand tu fonces, la tête baissée (when you plow forward, head down), you don't always see the wall you're about to hit. And your breathing is probably as shallow as your understanding. It's not about thinking, it's about doing. Maybe doing so as not to think. Who knows?
But when you finally stop and lift your head and take a deep breath, it is the one deep breath you need more than anything. And you are surprised to detect the scent, as faint as the memory of a last kiss, of something new, something unfamiliar. It is neither the rose of desperate longing nor the sea salt of sadness nor even the air freshener of your own voluntary ignorance, but the amber of promise. And though you know it's miles and months away, what that amber might suggest, and you cannot possibly know what that promise holds, you smile.
As you make your way back down to the cellar you've recently made your home, you bring that promise with you. You've always loved amber - it is your scent.