Citron Fig Clean 2016

When I started to focus my attention on individual fragrant objects of desire last autumn, Citron Fig seemed to me the epitome of a perfect summer fragrance: Fresh. Bright. Sparkling. Citrusy. Sweet. Long-lasting. Invigorating. Clarifying. Elegant. Chic.
Buying Citron Fig meant, I thought, to smell summer forever, to start the bright, early morning with this extremely harmonious citrus note and to remain awake and fresh for the rest of the day, in a good mood and focused, one with the idea of a summer bottled. Rarely has a fig been so clear and yet so unobtrusive as in Citron Fig, a lemon so zesty and bell-like, a ginger-cardamom spice note so gently cushioned by the sweet fruit juice of the mandarin. Rarely does a citrus fragrance last so long, four, five hours and beyond, and develop so wonderfully warm into a woody base that provides a strong, spicy foundation for all the flying, fruity, citrusy capers.
I thought Citron Fig was perfect for all time, and I bought it full of anticipation for summer.

But just as different as life is this summer, so different is the fragrance for me. What has changed is a lot, and Citron Fig has lost its abilities somewhere in this endless loop of constantly new problems: The scent seems flat, identity-less, empty, as if it could only unfold its full effect where a welcoming committee is already waiting for it. In this respect, I find it opportunistic: It cannot evoke good moods, lift spirits, or deliver the ultimate freshness kick in the morning. It can basically only reflect what is already there - and thus it feels like a faint echo of last year's fragrance experience, a stale Prosecco in place of a grand Champagne.
Citron Fig is an extremely balanced, harmonious summer fragrance. But it is not a magic potion that awakens wanderlust, lures to other shores, or invites daydreaming. It is a clean scent that needs a dominant wearer. It is indeed a reserved fragrance, though not in the sense in which this label was intended. Let’s try a self-inventory.
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Inventory 2019:

This is my job,
this is my stress,
here is my vacation
in the cottage on the mountain.

A scent, a bottle,
my fig, lemon,
I have fixed this freshness
to my skin.

Fixed here with this
precious sweetness,
which I use as a mirror
of the sun.

My morning is warm
and sunny and early,
my evening is a secret
and starlight clear.

the night is my sheet,
the moon is my pillow,
from freshness comes sweetness,
it lasts until morning.

Two, three cigarettes,
a glass of red wine, a book,
a few spicy notes,
a woody finish,

I almost never argue,
I complain very often,
my fig, lemon,
my wealth, much blindness.

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Inventory 2020:

My lemon, my fig,
my cowardice, my silence,
I haven’t seen my workplace
since March.

Relaxation, much calm,
no stress and no vacation,
still a morning,
little warmth, hardly any light.

No smoking, no red wine,
no sleeping, no waking,
still the stars,
but I am not there.

My lemon, my fig,
my cowardice, my silence,
my fears, my masks,
they close the mouth.

To the familiar, I have
sprayed my scent.
Who can I save?
I do not save him.
This is my scent.
This is its bottle.
No fig, no lemon.
Only cowardice, only trembling.
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