Dark me

  It's funny... or rather not, how a fragrance inspired by the circus has the opposite effect on me. Dzing! is dramatic, it's not amusement nor laughter or joy. Black to the white. It's a small communist class room saturated by vapors of glue and puberty. I, on the other side of the poorly isolated window, cataleptic and absent like a vase without flowers, staring at the glass, into the infinity. The window separate the closed space from the sty on the other side. Molecules of manure slowly cooked in wet mud entered the cracks to find home into the thick walls were that exhaling it to the room as bubbles of candy cotton. It was a curious process and, after all of these years, it still fills my vase with water. The flowers will eventually appear... Because I'm starting to feel my muscles again.

 I remember the atmosphere. The sand dunes, provoking the waves into sea-foam and hot vapors, struggling to keep dry every single grain of their immensity. The sky tattooing the waters with the airiest shades of blue. The disintegration of the night's coldness by thawing of the daylight. Uninterrupted flow. Pitch-black and eye-blindly brightness. I am alone in the universe's dream. Alone, in its peaceful rage. As a shadow in a haunted world. At the horizon, raising into a stranger's eye as the Fata Morgana. Playing with the weaker's narrow mind tricks they're too blind to see. And yet, I'm there. Visible to my invisibility, warm to my coldness, loving to my hatred, alive despite of my non-existence, compassionate to my cruelty. With a heartbeat. And silence. And Dune.

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 Gold by Donna Karan can either pass as the white bridal bouquet, in an early Summer wedding on the countryside, or, as an elegant small crown at a funeral, being a point in the line between romantic and tragic. From my experience, it's the perfect impression of the lily, its composition catches all of the flower's nuances - its main characteristics being intoxicating and exuberant. Gold iquals green, vegetal, sweet, spicy and a sharp woodiness wrapped around the most beautiful white floral accord that comes as an opulent heart of jasmine, orange flowers and heliotrope slowly transitioning to smooth towards the earthy drydown.

 Meet Lou-Lou's estranged cousin, Eden. She lived the 80s in the 90s and she continues to do so in the 21st century. Permed hair, colorful clothes, shoulder pads, spandex and lycra, big accessories, MTV spreading the wilderness all over the world, vibrant makeup floating in a sea of powder, eclectic, electric, go big or go nothing. She's the antithesis of natural and subtle. It shouts instead of talking. Eden is imitation to the tropical jungle. Plastic foliage, flowers and fruits grown into a mass of wet floral foam, covered in dust. Eden can't be depicted in notes, it's an excessive fragrance that despite of its chaotic exuberance it is harmonious in its artificial nature. Bitter to sweet, green to wet, powder to earth. I love its magnetism, yet, after all the years, Eden still has me at the thin line between love and hate or opulent, unusual, mysterious and tacky.

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 Geraniol does such a good job to disguise as a rose with its sharp, tangy metallic, lemony and dewy and scratchy green /herbal smell. Rossy de Palma Eau de Protection by État Libre d'Orange meets all of those characteristics and pluses with more, as the unconventional beauty that it is. Rose is the leitmotif of its structure, the vertebra that keeps together and connects all of the other elements that give it life and a sense of fluidity. A touch of fizz and spicy for an airy effect - citrusy/sour and slightly aromatic - a soft and quick tornado of aldehydes crossing without even being noticed, leaving being particles of metallic dust. And then, the transparent darkness install, taking over with a natural coldness, spreading its smoked, earthy cape and slowly alienating the glowing of the rose. Leaving it breathless with its incandescent love for death.

 Rosenthal. Hans has managed to create a rose that's not a rose, so freshly pulled out of the darkness and dusty, ambery and smoked, bitter to its bones, so perfectly beautiful in my books that it hurts. Its feeling is that of intimate sadness, a sorrow that is needed for a soul in order to heal, to revive, like a rose blooming out of its own ashes. Rosenthal shakes me from the ground, with my whole being, waking me up to a reality i can come to grips with. It seems infinite, as the possibilities we have to rise and continue on walking.