Helena1411

Just cinnamon and Moroccan rose …

Meanwhile, peach juice flows like nectar over your gray mood, a little balm for your battered soul, whose bittersweet tears are soaked up and carried away by the spicy plum mist, to distant lands where the sun rises before yours, where the cinnamon dust, fine as desert sand, paints dune landscapes under warm amber sun, where your invisible pain is blown away.
Little cloves sparkle softly like stars in the dark sky of your thoughts, the cinnamon landscapes glow golden beneath them, while the herb-fruity stream of peach gently meanders through foreign fields, capable of carrying all your deeply buried sorrow with it.
The thorns of the burgundy rose can no longer hurt you, so far it lies in your past that it is now just a distant hint, cradling your memory like velvet.

You let yourself be carried,
cinnamon-gold-bedded, clove-spiced-lit, peach-lovingly-flowing, plum-warm-blown, rose-velvet-remembered,
with your pain, with your sorrow, with your memory.

Just cinnamon and Moroccan rose …

It is a cacophony of scents. The molecular, mind you. Which, allegedly, as conceived by the house, is supposed to unfold individually on the skin of the respective wearer. And thus also create a fragrance that reflects the Scandinavian way of life in a very individual manner.

Sounds promising.

And indeed, the scent developed quite interestingly on the paper strip, if I recall correctly from our first encounter. This led me to make this truly catastrophic swap.

Now I intended to finally test the scent I had swapped long ago in direct skin contact. And what can I say: It was a trial.
Diffuse synthetic notes jumped directly from my wrist and clung confidently to my nostrils. Even through the surprised - and I must say, not in a positive way - recoil, the molecular claw could not be shaken off. It had already sunk its teeth in, leaving me with the feeling that I had to endure a molecular septum piercing that I wouldn't be able to remove anytime soon.
My seemingly perforated nasal septum now had to endure a developing cucumber-muff water, of course still in molecular synthetic structure, even though cucumber is in no way listed. And yet, the plastic cucumber hung on my nose.
Whether this impression is due to the fact that Pavlov lets his scent mature in a wooden barrel beforehand and has also added some shavings of eagle wood to the liquid, I cannot say. However, I would like to think that, if that is the case, the resulting outcome is not what was intended.
Even the rose cannot disguise itself well enough to pass as cucumber, not even in molecular-synthetic attire. The rose seemed to have taken flight amidst these cacophonous scent developments, and let's be honest, who could blame her or even hold it against her?

Quite quickly, a diffuse synthetic earth note joined in the further course, just as I had already experienced at the fragrance opening - ah, the patchouli. Also musty, but not the well-known natural cellar-must note, which I must admit I do not like at all, but rather its seemingly molecular sister, which made it even worse. Cucumber-patchouli-molecular-muff. Good grief!
The claws of this molecular monster relentlessly dug into my nasal walls, entangled themselves in my nose hairs, bringing tears to my eyes. And this scent thing is a Hulk, loud, coarse, roaring. If my nose had ears (a funny thought), it would be close to deaf right now. Would have, yes, had I not washed the scent off in utter despair and out of fear of resulting anosmia from a total strike of my noses, because it has a potency and endurance like a screaming toddler in front of the candy aisle.

If this scent is indeed supposed to develop as individually on the scented skin as promised by Zarko Ahlmann Pavlov, … then in that case, my skin is probably completely incompatible at least with this creation.

For those who are interested:
My nose hairs are growing back, the nasal septum has been straightened, and no anosmia occurred as a result (thank the fragrance heavens!). And a thank you goes to you for reading along and perhaps even sympathizing or at least feeling along.

For those who are not interested:
Why did you read this far? ;-)

And as a brief side note:
Always test on skin and not just on the paper test strip. Such things can come back to bite you. I've heard ...

Just one spray …

… and it releases the spicy resin scent of pine needles onto memory-soaked forest paths, soft and wistful.

Wood dust shimmers golden in the sunbeams filtering through the dry, misty coniferous forest, laying a fine net over the faces of pine bark, whose melancholy is flickeringly concealed.

Balsamic-laden breezes gently brush over the mossy forest floor, cracking and creaking with every step into the dark green sea of needles.

Contemplative calm walks quietly hand in hand with the silently calling longing, supporting it with pine-strength, while the dark warm spicy resin binds it forever.

Just one spray …

------------------

This fragrance is special. An authentic natural scent like I have rarely experienced.
This is certainly also due to the fact that Farfalla sources its fragrance materials from organic farmers and smaller producers, and their products are mostly marked with the Natrue seal. The use of these raw materials ultimately also leads to the minimum shelf life of the fragrances, although they can often be used longer if stored properly. The company has made it its mission to meet high ethical standards, which is why the fragrances, including this one, are produced vegan in addition to all organic sourcing. A point that I find extremely appealing.

Farfalla writes on their homepage about the fragrance:
“High up in the steep and rocky mountains of Val d’Anniviers, the Swiss stone pines form the upper forest edge. At an altitude of 2000 m, they defy the harsh climate of the Valais Alps with strong winds and cold, snowy winters. However, in summer, the stone pines are surrounded by blue gentians and babbling mountain streams, and as soon as the sun warms, their needles release a wonderfully aromatic perfume.”
(Source: https://www.farfalla.ch/de/p/46n-08e-schweiz-arve-natural-terroir-perfumes-p82799#tab-0)
And that hits the nail on the head.
It smells so much like fir wood, like balsamic resin, like freshly sawn conifer dust, that one is catapulted directly into another world with a single spray. A dark golden green balsamic resinous woodsy one.

This fragrance is calm, melancholy, relaxation, wistfulness, all at once, and it is a wonderfully successful forest scent.
For many, it may not be a perfume in the true sense, and that may well be the case.
But it is a scent for days when retreat is needed, tranquility, grounding.
It left in a completely thoughtless and ill-considered exchange, only to finally be allowed back in. Even though I have enough fragrances. Truly.
But it is special. So very much.

Just one spray …

Cuttingly cool, milky white rays of sunshine fall on glittering blankets of snow, ice crystals are outlined on windows, on lakes, in your thoughts.
Who has enchanted the soap bubbles? They seem to hang frozen in the air, as if by magic, covered in absurd patterns of geometric arrangements, precise to the point of chaos. They exude the scent of cold cleanliness to the very last of your pores.
The air itself smells pure white, heralding the imminent snowfall.
Clinking, cold, cool.
Your heart is as warm as the metal to which hands inevitably freeze in winter.
Does it not also smell of metal? Or is it the frozen blood in your veins that makes you shiver with delight...?
Silvery musk flakes float between your motionless arms and legs directly into your frozen head, they paralyze the time in which you just were, distancing you from yourself.
Life cools in an unattainable scent corset of ice and snow.
You are not dead. You are not alive. You are in between. In the silver mist. Frozen for eternity.

As if I were losing myself in your blood-red drops, while you flow down my throat like velvet, exuding a bitter-cool scent of ripe berry fruits, full-bodied, sublime, to sink in my silky, dark red shimmering evening gown like tears in diva-like brocade. I walk drunkenly through your opulence over heavily scented seas of roses, whose delicate petals caress my feet, while the thorns are covered by a bouquet of flowers that almost tears me into the depths - or is it heights... Your scent enchants all my senses, as if the other smells of the surroundings were forgotten and everything concentrated on the existence of this floral abundance that pours over me, dark, almost bitter, and yet fragrant in all color prisms.
I even chase after your honey-like flattery, feeling untouchable, wicked, eternally feminine, already I willingly surrender into your clutches from 1001 Nights, you tenderly whisper oriental tales to me and relentlessly draw me into your moss-green, bitter-warm spell of feminine infinity. Unavoidably, I fall out of time, as the past, present, and future connect through the lichen-covered earth on which I sway, held by you, to a new time dimension.
The whole world sways helplessly with me, but as long as you accompany me, no misfortune can harm me.
You are Magie Noire and yet so much more.