Kylesa

Christmas was always celebrated with grandma and grandpa.
They had a good parlour with a noble couch set from the 50s with soft sand-coloured velvet.
At the side stood a finely curved Recamiere made of fine dark leather. And behind it hung a huge painting with an angel gently kissing a woman in the clouds.
There was also a stone fireplace in the good parlour. Every year he conjured up a cosy warmth and comfort.
The good room was framed by three huge windows.
So I always had a look into the garden, looking for the bearded man in the red robe. But I could never see him before.
In the afternoon my grandpa brought in the fir tree and placed it centrally in the room.
My grandmother dragged the Christmas tree decorations out of the cellar, into countless ancient boxes.
We always decorated it together, with real candles and tinsel, small colourful birds and glittering balls.

It was always later and my excitement and joy rose.
Grandpa brought in the firewood and loaded it.
Now it was almost time.
In the fireplace the wood crackled quietly and the first load of smoke ... was in the air.
From the kitchen came soft warm smells, the ready-baked vanilla croissant.
They mixed with the smoke and the charred wood.
Warm smoky resinous sweet now lay in the air.

My eyes kept going out, into the garden.
Waiting, with great joy.
The snow lay there glittering like a protective blanket and the cold cracked.
My grandpa smiled at me and stroked my face. His hands smelled of fire, resin and smoke.
And then...
yes then suddenly there was a loud knock at the door.


Hyde.

Is it longing that keeps us imprisoned.
Is it the many memories that pull like clouds in the sky.
Is it the desire for closeness, painfully sharp in our soul.
Or is it the moment that keeps us together forever.

This afternoon the sun shone through the small window.
Soft warm light danced in the room and touched her skin warming.
She got up and put on her saffron yellow dress.
Combed her shiny black hair and put it loosely together.
On the small wooden table stood a fine vase with a bouquet of fragrantly soft flowers. They gently radiated their scent.

She closed the door behind her and went into the stairwell. The air seemed soft and waxy, permeated by diffuse dark smoke.
Delicate sweetness spread.
Together with the dark scent of the wood panelling it gave a feeling of home.
She went out onto the street and closed the second door behind her.
Forever?
Their way led to the park, to the little bridge, where they always met.
She felt the cold of the autumn wind penetrating her.
But her heart was full of love and warmth and hope.
She breathed the earth and gentle mosses.
The wood and resin of the old trees, soft and sweet, their scent lay in the air.
A quiet fear spread through her.
Like black clouds they flew over their minds.
Would he be there waiting for you?
Had he read your letter?
Her letter, with all her secret wishes and dreams.

She saw the bridge and a darkly dressed person stood there.
Waiting.
Her footsteps became faster and her heart pounded. The world around them seemed to stand still.

A delicate touch of vanilla and tobacco blew towards her.

She knew she would never return, and she closed those two doors forever.

For a short moment she felt the melancholy in her heart and the painfully warm tears wetting her face.

Melancholy

Slowly but steadily the darkness surrounds the land.
On the horizon there is only a narrow red gold stripe of the longing sun to be seen.
A warm sparkling magic, for a short moment of happiness.
And suddenly the night embraces you with all its power.
Protective in the dark, it envelops you like a coat of soft warm leather.
Gives you security.
You feel the warmth of the fragrance of the night.
Soft warm spices, floating melancholic, soak your senses.
They almost rob you of your mind.
They let you go back to a place a long time ago.
To a place that lives only in you.

You feel the steaming damp warm earth beneath you.
Carefully you touch the bark of old trees.
You take a deep breath and close your eyes.
They exude their fragrance, dark woody, full of silence and peace.
The sweet balsamic resins flowing, almost floating, glittering on their bark. They'll tell you the secret of sorcery.

You open your eyes and look into the black of the night.
There, observed from glowing sparkling eyes of a wild animal.

Avowal makes you feel deep in your heart.
You feel the warmth on your skin.
You feel how the scent melts with you.
You feel the magically beautiful aura that surrounds you.
Avowal lets you see "your" story.

The Labyrinth of the Senses.

Avowal.

Softly melancholic the wind blows through the crowns of the trees.
Their constant whispering penetrates the silence.
They tell you a story about their existence.
Centuries.
They tell you about the delicate scents of the herbs on the forest floor. How they carefully stretch their wild flowers and leaves into the rays of light. Efforts to catch warm sunbeams.
From warm and soft mosses, protective and enveloping like a rich green fleece.
They tell you about the warm, spicy sweet resins that penetrate their barking old trunks.
The fine needles and countless cones they lose.
From the steady wind and dancing snowflakes.
Of warmth in summer and crawling cold in winter.

And sometimes they whisper the story very quietly to you when darkness falls and the black of the night lies over the forest.
When the magically soft smoke nestles around their branches.
Diffuse and with a spell from ancient times.
Illuminated by the sparkling starry tent in the sky.
Mystical shadows moving silently in the darkness.
The cold breeze that covers everything at night.
And the sun, which in the morning, with warmth, awakens the forest anew. So he can give off his scent again.

And if you listen carefully to the voices of the forest, they will tell you the story of Nikolay, who once captured the magic of the forest.

La Foret Russian.

And again a fragrance gives me a beautiful memory.

To a place I've told you about before.
To this small Greek island in the North Aegean Sea.
Samothrace.
There is a small town there.
Therma.
Near Therma there are many springs and countless small waterfalls, crossed by small streams and natural pools.
A place of enchantment.
On the way to the springs, there are huge and ancient fig trees.
Their fruits can be picked sweet and ripe directly from the tree.
The green of the fig trees lies delicately in the air and I sit down at this little stream.
Right next to me is one of the countless sources.
So fresh and pure.
I drink from her and the water tastes indescribably soft.
The brook splashes quietly and meditatively.
The large stones on the shore are warmed up by the sun, which throws its rays powerfully through the green canopy of leaves.
Dense soft rich moss protects the old tree trunks and gives a pleasant soft feeling.
Wispernd the foliage of the trees rustles a history from old times. Warm gently touched by the constant wind of the island.
In the air there is an enchanting scent of jasmine and wild roses.
Accompanied by fine resinous notes of cistus rose.
Tender green spicy iridescent.....magically soft and gentle ending.

And while I'm sitting by this little creek, I notice the hustle and bustle.
Countless dragonflies dance over the water.
Some rest on the warm stones, their delicate wings shimmer in the sunlight.
Their bodies shine and shimmer in beautiful colours.
A peaceful together.
In the distance I hear the bells of passing sheep.
Caught in the illusion?...no, for me this was a very special moment in reality.


Illusion Captive 1898