Stone Angels

 Eight Dangers - a dreamcatcher, wovens my nightmares into its web and protects my subconscious from bad eyes-wide-open dreams. Hanged over my skin, its scent offers hope and shelter to memories that crave the reality of their emotions.

I'm a believer of my inner spirituality, not a devotee of any God although I respect all of them. My grandmother was a worshipper of God, of Jesus, Virgin Mary and of all the Saints, known or unknown. The church was a sacred place to her, although home she may have used some blasphemous expressions to torn us down. We deserved it well. She used to drag me to church every Sunday, despite my childish protests. I didn't liked our church. It was a reminder of all the names marked on the cold crosses in the cemetery next to it. Our priest didn't had a place in my heart either, he was one os those whose words one should follow and not his facts. Words that, oftentimes, lost their meaning in vapors of ethanol that cut my breath off during the confession time. I decided to give up on church when i was 16 and my grandmother accepted it open-mindedness. She knew i needed to find my own path in life instead of following the one that others marked for me. My choice never changed her love for me, instead her understanding, despite her beliefs, made my admiration towards her blossom. Although the church was not an option to me, something magical happened every time we visited the Monastery close to our house. I was the first at the door the second the word monastery was mentioned in a conversation. At least we shared that together, although it wasn't  recurrently.
The solemnity of the monastery, the dust of its history, the nuns' crystalline laughter, the green on the ground, the blue above, the air in between, the stone Angels or the icons covering the nakedness of the cold walls, all of that provided my inner peace. My Inner Island of serenity.

The stone Angels played with my imagination since i was only a child, creating the illusion of a renascentist canvas utterly untouched by time. I was fascinated by their their form, eternal faces and expressions, by their lack of life and inert wings completely opposite of their vivid eyes.
The scent they emanated through their cemented bodies was the smell of years of stagnant dust and piercing incense soaked into their cheeks, of old Bibles readings, warm candle light, wooden benches and silent prays.
Eight Dangers is the closest fragrance I've ever come across to resemble the stone Angels' smell. A dense and calid scent that spiritually tries to fulfill one's need when desperately hungers for the love of those that no longer are. As a cloak of darkness colored in a burst of hot black pepper that invades the nostrils in the most warm, invigorating and cheerful manner, as an introduction to cold, aromatic and resinous olibanum immerse in the sweet earthiness of a slightly pungent patchouli that cures its strengths with soft woods and warm resins. A never-ending metamorphosis that caches one in its wings and doesn't let go. An Angel shielding. My stone Angel. 

Complete, Eight Dangers by My Inner Island, offers shelter for restless souls, like mine. 


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