Cedarwood
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Palonera
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Palonera
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31
that one
It had been too much, once again and of everything, far too much.
An endless procession of roasted birds, sugary cookies, melting chocolate, and cream-laden cakes had passed by, constantly washed down with red and white wine, port and mulled wine.
"Have some more, you're far too thin!" it had been said, again and again, morning, noon, and night, regardless of the fact that my belt was already three holes tighter and I felt an increasing kinship with the fattened goose whose remains lay before me on the plate.
Far too much too much.
I held out for five days, then I needed a break.
No more swirling spice clouds, no nougat caramel cotton candy crunch, no dark sparkling burgundy - not only my stomach, but also my nose had lodged a protest and pulled me out into the biting cold winter air, had set my reluctant feet into the freshly fallen snow and ignored the objections of frostbitten skin.
It had pushed me step by step through the cutting wind that tugged and pulled, shook and jostled, driving the lethargy from my limbs, the heaviness from my head, and all the sticky, cloying richness from my nose.
No scent in the world could be so wonderful.
I am still oversaturated, still weary of the heavy, the sweet, the warm and spicy, the sparkling bottles with their lascivious, enticing contents remain unseen, untouched.
Only one does not.
That one, whom I so rarely notice, who modestly stays in the background, half hidden behind his brothers and sisters who push forward, demanding attention, "look at me, touch me, spray me on."
That one, who is the One, the Only, whom I can tolerate on days like these, when everything has been too much.
That one, who does not perfume me, does not mask me, who plays no role and demands nothing.
Who is gentle and friendly, bright and light and clean like freshly bathed and finely creamed, dusted with a delicate hint of powder.
Who is there, simply there, simple and present, not making a fuss about me, about himself - like a good friend, with whom one can talk and be silent, sitting together stroking the soul, finding peace and oneself.
That one, of whom I know that he does not take offense when I soon overlook him again behind the loud siblings, knowing that he is there, will always be there, waiting for the day, for the hour, when he will again be the One, the Only…
An endless procession of roasted birds, sugary cookies, melting chocolate, and cream-laden cakes had passed by, constantly washed down with red and white wine, port and mulled wine.
"Have some more, you're far too thin!" it had been said, again and again, morning, noon, and night, regardless of the fact that my belt was already three holes tighter and I felt an increasing kinship with the fattened goose whose remains lay before me on the plate.
Far too much too much.
I held out for five days, then I needed a break.
No more swirling spice clouds, no nougat caramel cotton candy crunch, no dark sparkling burgundy - not only my stomach, but also my nose had lodged a protest and pulled me out into the biting cold winter air, had set my reluctant feet into the freshly fallen snow and ignored the objections of frostbitten skin.
It had pushed me step by step through the cutting wind that tugged and pulled, shook and jostled, driving the lethargy from my limbs, the heaviness from my head, and all the sticky, cloying richness from my nose.
No scent in the world could be so wonderful.
I am still oversaturated, still weary of the heavy, the sweet, the warm and spicy, the sparkling bottles with their lascivious, enticing contents remain unseen, untouched.
Only one does not.
That one, whom I so rarely notice, who modestly stays in the background, half hidden behind his brothers and sisters who push forward, demanding attention, "look at me, touch me, spray me on."
That one, who is the One, the Only, whom I can tolerate on days like these, when everything has been too much.
That one, who does not perfume me, does not mask me, who plays no role and demands nothing.
Who is gentle and friendly, bright and light and clean like freshly bathed and finely creamed, dusted with a delicate hint of powder.
Who is there, simply there, simple and present, not making a fuss about me, about himself - like a good friend, with whom one can talk and be silent, sitting together stroking the soul, finding peace and oneself.
That one, of whom I know that he does not take offense when I soon overlook him again behind the loud siblings, knowing that he is there, will always be there, waiting for the day, for the hour, when he will again be the One, the Only…
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Waldvogel
