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Fire and ice...
You give me ice, my heart will burn.
You give me fire, my heart will shatter.
These two verses were originally created in my mind about Horizon by Guy Laroche, but during a wrist to wrist comparison between Fahrenheit and Fahrenheit 32 they unveiled a whole new meaning. For some moments they had me pondering over what would be the lesser evil for a heart; to burn or to shatter? Since "burn" could also be followed by "with passion", I finally decided that "burn" it is. Right after that I suddenly realised that the verses could be the national anthem of Flankerland, cause by their very nature they actually are an inversed harangue scolding the stupidity which thrives there. For what has 32 got to do with the original behemoth of the '80s other than the very same thing that its name indicates when converted to Celsius degrees? Since I'm quite sure we all can do the math, then zero, nil, zilch, aught, cipher, squat, you name it. However one more synonym of the aforementioned words is "love" and the prime meaning of this word is exactly what I feel about it.
Now, if there had to be some subliminal connotation for the word "white", I guess it would be immaculacy for half of us, and coldness for the rest. I belong to the rest. I could also belong to the very few who think of white as the colour of madness, and although cold suits madness way better than immaculate, that's another story.
Fahrenheit 32 is the younger brother whose heart froze with terror upon seeing what his elder sibling had done to the world. Therefore he searched for the most far-flung and sparsely populated place possible, so as to avoid any future contact with his brother's volcanic temper, changing a few letters in order to turn "sulphuric" into "soporific" in the meanwhile. For sleep is the ultimate nepenthe and the world suddenly found itself with too many ugly stories that needed to be forgotten after 1988. Deciding that any eternal icescapes would be the perfect place to invest in oblivion and save face, Fahrenheit 32 moved to Antarctica and rendered its niveous self invisible in its endless whiteness.
Am I the only one around here who always conditions himself into smelling vanilla upon seeing vast planes covered in snow?
Am I the only one who believes that howling glacial winds is what's actually unleashed every time I press the sprayer of Fahrenheit 32?
Am I the only one who keeps its bottle in the fridge during hot summer days for I fear it will thaw if I don't do it?
Could it be the sole fragrance outnumbering (or is it outfreezing?) absolute zero?
Could it be the wedding perfume of the Snow Queen?
I've always believed that it's nigh impossible to tell whether ice prevails over fire or vice versa and the very existence of the universe (and Iceland) keeps my question unanswered. However, in olfactory terms this is one of the very few cases where this question is no more, since according to what evaluating credit my nose might hold, Fahrenheit 32 has won over Fahrenheit by a landslide. Oh, and it's also the sole case thus far where a flanker has outdone its begetter, despite being a weakling compared to its infernal majesty. I bow before the mighty Fahrenheit, but it's the kind of bow that's motivated rather by dread than respect. And then I ride the winds with Fahrenheit 32 and go to watch the polar lights reversing the spectrum of its icebound whiteness in the night sky over its frozen kingdom. Join us. It's certainly worth it...
You give me fire, my heart will shatter.
These two verses were originally created in my mind about Horizon by Guy Laroche, but during a wrist to wrist comparison between Fahrenheit and Fahrenheit 32 they unveiled a whole new meaning. For some moments they had me pondering over what would be the lesser evil for a heart; to burn or to shatter? Since "burn" could also be followed by "with passion", I finally decided that "burn" it is. Right after that I suddenly realised that the verses could be the national anthem of Flankerland, cause by their very nature they actually are an inversed harangue scolding the stupidity which thrives there. For what has 32 got to do with the original behemoth of the '80s other than the very same thing that its name indicates when converted to Celsius degrees? Since I'm quite sure we all can do the math, then zero, nil, zilch, aught, cipher, squat, you name it. However one more synonym of the aforementioned words is "love" and the prime meaning of this word is exactly what I feel about it.
Now, if there had to be some subliminal connotation for the word "white", I guess it would be immaculacy for half of us, and coldness for the rest. I belong to the rest. I could also belong to the very few who think of white as the colour of madness, and although cold suits madness way better than immaculate, that's another story.
Fahrenheit 32 is the younger brother whose heart froze with terror upon seeing what his elder sibling had done to the world. Therefore he searched for the most far-flung and sparsely populated place possible, so as to avoid any future contact with his brother's volcanic temper, changing a few letters in order to turn "sulphuric" into "soporific" in the meanwhile. For sleep is the ultimate nepenthe and the world suddenly found itself with too many ugly stories that needed to be forgotten after 1988. Deciding that any eternal icescapes would be the perfect place to invest in oblivion and save face, Fahrenheit 32 moved to Antarctica and rendered its niveous self invisible in its endless whiteness.
Am I the only one around here who always conditions himself into smelling vanilla upon seeing vast planes covered in snow?
Am I the only one who believes that howling glacial winds is what's actually unleashed every time I press the sprayer of Fahrenheit 32?
Am I the only one who keeps its bottle in the fridge during hot summer days for I fear it will thaw if I don't do it?
Could it be the sole fragrance outnumbering (or is it outfreezing?) absolute zero?
Could it be the wedding perfume of the Snow Queen?
I've always believed that it's nigh impossible to tell whether ice prevails over fire or vice versa and the very existence of the universe (and Iceland) keeps my question unanswered. However, in olfactory terms this is one of the very few cases where this question is no more, since according to what evaluating credit my nose might hold, Fahrenheit 32 has won over Fahrenheit by a landslide. Oh, and it's also the sole case thus far where a flanker has outdone its begetter, despite being a weakling compared to its infernal majesty. I bow before the mighty Fahrenheit, but it's the kind of bow that's motivated rather by dread than respect. And then I ride the winds with Fahrenheit 32 and go to watch the polar lights reversing the spectrum of its icebound whiteness in the night sky over its frozen kingdom. Join us. It's certainly worth it...