Top Notes 
Galbanum
Peach
Heart Notes 
Ceylonese cinnamon
Ginger
Rose
Base Notes 
Mysore sandalwood
Vanilla
Amber
Helena1411
107 Reviews
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Helena1411
Top Review
37
The Prison Key
A prison.
Cold. Unreal.
Exhausting. Invisible.
With which one can go anywhere unhindered.
That accompanies one at all times.
With which every feeling remains outside.
That isolates one from everything.
With which one is trapped.
That holds one tight.
So she sits there and thinks. About the prison. About her prison. An anatomical prison made of skin, muscles, tendons, and bones. From her skin, her muscles, her tendons, and her bones.
“Thoughts are free...,” as a German folk song from the 18th century sings, which is still known today in the latest version by Hoffmann von Fallersleben. The melody buzzes melancholically, notes dance sadly, words wander wistfully. Are they really free? It doesn’t feel like it. Not in the prison. In her prison.
What has she actually done today so far? She strains to think, but only fragments of the day can be pieced together into a patchy puzzle. Institutionalized automatons, that’s what life consists of, she thinks, as she smells her wrist from exactly such a routine. Just another recurring function.
A scent. One more puzzle piece, she considers, because she must have just applied a fragrance. Automatically, like every day. The prison allows that.
An image. Of conifers, a bit of green between thumb and forefinger, lightly crushed. The scent rises to her nose. Fresh. Green. Almost with a hint of citrus. She has to think of the conifers in her parents' garden, of shade-giving green, of the birds chirping from within, of childhood bliss.
The scent transforms into another image. She sees herself sitting with former friends in the then newly emerging latte macchiato & flavored coffee temples, laughing, holding a spiced chai tea latte between her hands. The smell of sharp cinnamon mixed with warm milk and a dollop of cinnamon cream fills her nose. A memory of long-gone times, of carefreeness, of friendship bliss.
And again a change in the scent. Something fruity is added. She recognizes it immediately: peach. A main fragrance component of her former signature scent. Which accompanied her in her first love. Which reminds her of the fluttering, the butterflies that could actually penetrate the prison - was there even one back then? - of overwhelming happiness, of love-drunk joys.
For a long, long time, these two main scents and thus the thoughts of friendship bliss and love-drunk joys remain.
It only changes slowly, as if everything were becoming balsamic-sweet-creamy, perhaps a hint of vanilla with the cinnamon, perhaps a little more cinnamon cream, perhaps ...
Childhood bliss, friendship bliss, and love-drunk joys make the prison tremble. The thoughts, it seems to her, run amok, take on a life of their own, disregard the anatomical prison made of skin, muscles, tendons, and bones.
Applying a fragrance seems to be an automated routine, but smelling it does not.
And the prison opens.
Cold. Unreal.
Exhausting. Invisible.
With which one can go anywhere unhindered.
That accompanies one at all times.
With which every feeling remains outside.
That isolates one from everything.
With which one is trapped.
That holds one tight.
So she sits there and thinks. About the prison. About her prison. An anatomical prison made of skin, muscles, tendons, and bones. From her skin, her muscles, her tendons, and her bones.
“Thoughts are free...,” as a German folk song from the 18th century sings, which is still known today in the latest version by Hoffmann von Fallersleben. The melody buzzes melancholically, notes dance sadly, words wander wistfully. Are they really free? It doesn’t feel like it. Not in the prison. In her prison.
What has she actually done today so far? She strains to think, but only fragments of the day can be pieced together into a patchy puzzle. Institutionalized automatons, that’s what life consists of, she thinks, as she smells her wrist from exactly such a routine. Just another recurring function.
A scent. One more puzzle piece, she considers, because she must have just applied a fragrance. Automatically, like every day. The prison allows that.
An image. Of conifers, a bit of green between thumb and forefinger, lightly crushed. The scent rises to her nose. Fresh. Green. Almost with a hint of citrus. She has to think of the conifers in her parents' garden, of shade-giving green, of the birds chirping from within, of childhood bliss.
The scent transforms into another image. She sees herself sitting with former friends in the then newly emerging latte macchiato & flavored coffee temples, laughing, holding a spiced chai tea latte between her hands. The smell of sharp cinnamon mixed with warm milk and a dollop of cinnamon cream fills her nose. A memory of long-gone times, of carefreeness, of friendship bliss.
And again a change in the scent. Something fruity is added. She recognizes it immediately: peach. A main fragrance component of her former signature scent. Which accompanied her in her first love. Which reminds her of the fluttering, the butterflies that could actually penetrate the prison - was there even one back then? - of overwhelming happiness, of love-drunk joys.
For a long, long time, these two main scents and thus the thoughts of friendship bliss and love-drunk joys remain.
It only changes slowly, as if everything were becoming balsamic-sweet-creamy, perhaps a hint of vanilla with the cinnamon, perhaps a little more cinnamon cream, perhaps ...
Childhood bliss, friendship bliss, and love-drunk joys make the prison tremble. The thoughts, it seems to her, run amok, take on a life of their own, disregard the anatomical prison made of skin, muscles, tendons, and bones.
Applying a fragrance seems to be an automated routine, but smelling it does not.
And the prison opens.
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