On more than one occassion, I've internally debated which sense I would rather lose — if I had to chose and were given a choice. I fail to recall the reason for this mental excercise of morbid pro and con, or even if there ever was one, but I guess it's partly about putting in an advance preference with the powers that may be.
Should a terrible thing happen, I'd rather it was this, mylord!
The sense of taste and smell always end up being picked. Perhaps it's the familiarity of losing it, as I do frequently for a few days after a really bad cold. Perhaps it's because I envision the loss of taste and smell to be the least dangerous both litterally and to my quality of life.
You might think that losing the sense of touch could easily tie for the sense to go first, but childhood scary tales of people burning their own flesh on stoves, beacuse they can't feel anything, die hard.
But just now, in this very moment, I'm starting to question the repeated outcome of the debate. The reason: Memories. For me, there's no more powerful sense to recal fond memories. The faintest of a familiar smell grants instant access to an overwhelming onslaught of emotions and pictures.
And now, with that girl almost gone, I can't imagine living without that gift. The sheets, the couch, my t-shirt. All carrying just enough of her to be delightful.
What to pick, then?