Mydarkflower

As a child, there was nothing more exciting for me than going to the carnival in the evening (editor's note: elsewhere also called "Kirmes").
The music, the laughter, the lights, the smell of the stands with the sweets, the summer warm wind, being outside at night - so mysterious and exotic, like in another world.
I was only marginally interested in the merry-go-rounds, but I could never get enough of watching others on the rides, hearing their whooping and screeching, seeing their beams when they staggered out of the gondolas with wobbly knees.
I loved this atmosphere, more than once I dreamed of being able to ride with the showmen, of being an everlasting part of this magic.

As a teenager I fell in love more than once with the tattooed guards at the bumper cars and not only the warmth of the summer nights made me sweat when they smiled, while I fought with my candied apple, the people around me smiled and everything seemed so light, almost weightless.
And again I would have loved to go with you.

To this day I still love summer carnival nights, markets in the evening, late street parties.
Sparkling, enchanted, floating everything appears to me.
The stress seems to roll off the people like drops on a glass, they finally have time, smile at each other and appear very soft and young in the glow-worm like light.

Allure Sensuelle takes me by the hand like my parents did before and I am back on the hustle and bustle, in a mild night full of light, cheerfulness and excitement.
The handsome guy from the booth back there winks at me, I hear the laughter from the merry-go-rounds, bites into my love apple and, this time for real, I'll go with him.

I live up to my nickname in that dark things frighten me, but fascinate me.
Horror, fantasy, fairy tales and sagas in their original version, the abysses of the human soul - all this makes me shudder.
With horror, but also with rapture

Epic Woman is the fragrant description of this emotional state.
I am blown away, at the same time it almost frightens me, I want to sink into it, I am half disgusted.

I can smell shadows, decaying walls, old forests, the mythical creatures that roam through them in pursuit of a compliant victim.
Ragged sheets after a rabid night of love, sweat and spiced wine.
A fire, somewhere in the night.

I can see Lucy in front of me, who surrenders to the werewolf in the labyrinth and Pan, who hunts the nymphs and gets his hands on one, a vampire whose victim dies in ecstasy.
I wonder what a mixed creature like a centaur could do to you, what the Minotaur would have done if I had run into him in the labyrinth, or what the beauty really did to the beast.
What a feeling it may be to spend a night of love. On a grave.

Here, in Epic, rapture and horror are very close together for me.
What an unusual, dark, sensual, dirty scent, where I really can't think of any opportunity to wear it.

.. ..although... ...while playing catch in nowhere... ..between ancient walls in the twilight. . . . . .and maybe we're not alone in that.

The liaison between L'eau and me started about two years ago with a misunderstanding.

Convinced that I was holding a sample of the original Chanel No. 5, I sprayed a minimal amount of the fragrance on my wrist, prepared for the worst (I had tested it ages ago and found it simply ghastly) and prudently without any further plans for the day.

I was completely stunned to discover that I no longer found the horrible brew horrible at all, but that I fell in love almost immediately and, to top it all off, the scent became more beautiful by the minute.
I held my wrist under the nose of every available family member, stammering chalk-white: "This is Chanel No. 5!!!! I can't believe it!!! How can he be so beautiful??? Have I lost my mind?!?"
Family was just as baffled.

Completely enthusiastically I used the test specimen and shortly before my ordering finger could send the final purchase message here in the Souk, I took a close look at the lettering on the test specimen for whatever reason

"Chanel No. 5 L'eau"

There she was, the solution to the riddle and misunderstanding.
I wasn't going crazy
I had fallen in love with another fragrance.

The ordering finger corrected and point-blank I was in possession of the fragrance, which has probably forever and ever secured a permanent place in my collection.

For me, L'eau is sunshine, spring, fresh air, a warm breeze and joy in the bottle.
Fresh but not cold, flowery but not overwhelming, hardly sweet but not harsh and yet very tender and flattering.
When warm, it blends in seamlessly with nature outside, in the cold months it brings me back the light.
For me he is not the watered-down version of Urchanel, he is something completely different, for me he is worlds more beautiful.
Much more tender, fresh, softer, younger, dreamier, a girl on a flowering spring meadow.

If I could keep only two fragrances forever and ever - L'eau would be one of them.

etc. usf. blabla.

I hate that proverb.

No matter which stroke of fate befalls you, there is always a pithy or pitiful one coming from somewhere: "What doesn't kill you etc. usf. blabla."
Knee open, abandoned by friend, pet or relative dead, house burned down, cancer survived or Hartz4 after a life of hard work: "What doesn't kill you etc. usf. blabla."

I need two fragrances to smell, feel and recognize why I hate this miserable saying so much.
One is "L'Heure de Nuit" - the other "L'Heure Bleue".
There should be a third one to complete the picture, but I haven't found it yet.

A life, a woman's life in fragrance I have here in bottlings in front of me.

The one, the fragrance not yet found, is a girl, a child.
Still untouched by deep pain and sorrow, it looks in wonder at the world, sees magic and miracles everywhere, believes in the goodness in everything, has deep trust in itself and everything around it. Nothing dark that cannot be driven away, evil only exists in fairy tales. She is full of tenderness and joy. The world is good, beautiful, full of fairies and butterflies.

L'Heure de Nuit is a woman, not quite young anymore, not old yet, a mother with small children. She has already seen evil, suffered injuries and even inflicted them, cried, suffered, was at the end of her strength, has picked herself up again. She hasn't had time to hunt butterflies, look for fairies or see where the rainbow starts for a long time.
But your children bring back the spell. Not always, but sometimes, when she sees autumn leaves or snowflakes falling with them, admires earthworms, listens to the wind or observes clouds, she can laugh again like a child, rejoice full of innocence. Then she is tender, soft and loving.

L'Heure Bleue is the same woman, the same girl, years later. After many wounds and strokes of fate, miracles and trust have finally disappeared. It is only the wind that rustles in the trees, butterflies die in autumn and a rainbow is light broken into drops of water. People are not always good, caution is better than looking back. Behind every smile waits a tear. She still sees the beauty, but can't feel it anymore. She can remember that she could see fairies, but she can no longer find them, can no longer believe them.

L'Heure Bleue has often been described as "melancholic" in the commentaries. That's not deep enough for me.
He is deeply sad, a reminder of what once was and what it will never be like again. Lost innocence, deep scars, never completely healed. He remembers the girl from that time and can never be again.

Yes, we mature and grow on our experience, but at what price?
I think "what doesn't kill us makes us stronger" is just wrong.

Correctly, it should read, "What doesn't kill us, lets a piece of us die every time."

... a child who was terribly afraid of school.

Nobody told anyone anything about it so as not to get more trouble, not to be more of a target.
The secretiveness cost it strength, the false smile, so that his parents did not have to worry.

The teachers, who should have noticed how much the child suffered and was bullied by his classmates, looked away or got involved.

Every morning the child had a stomachache, his legs barely managed to pedal his bike, which would take him much faster to the place of his daily ordeal.

Day after day, year after year, it waited eagerly for the weekends to recharge its batteries for the next week, even more desperately for the holidays in which the panic and pain would disappear for at least a while.

7 long years full of fear, which still haunt the child today, what is no longer a child for a long time, because every prank, every teasing that happens again to the child's children tears open the wounds again, transforms it into a berserk, who in his rage would like to wipe every person responsible for this pain off the map.

This child lives very deeply hidden inside me and normally I can forget, I want to forget that it is there.
But as soon as I had sprayed Coco on, it began to tremble, to cry, tried to make itself very small, to disappear.
I felt the old panic creeping up in me, suddenly I could smell chalk and table sponges, hear the clattering of many children's feet, feel the gloating laughter, whatever was meant for me, how someone looks over my shoulder during the class test and makes a derogatory remark about it loudly.

Maybe it was a teacher who wore that scent, it almost has to be.
I'm sorry, but I can't describe Coco neutrally.

He smells like fear to me.