||Serge Lutens - La Fille de Berlin Eau de Parfum - 50 ml|
La Fille de Berlin
The glass door just closed on her smile... Never again shall I see her face, only her back, as she walks down the dirt path, her shadow growing longer every step of the way. If we take the past too literally, we may only see an illusion, like trompe-l’oeil painted curtains on a wall. Is it to avoid the sickening stench of nostalgia that one image erases to make way for another in every sense? It seems to us that to stay alive, an image should be re-examined in the present and not, as in the above-mentioned example, by intentionally and exclusively holding on to the memory of a parting smile. Remember that behind it, a major decision
determine the future of the one who has to live without the beloved one, and who chose to live by inventing.
In short, making her presence irrelevant or even unwanted, and thus giving rise to:
Solitude: our territory,
Fear: our alter-ego,
Rage: our creation.
So that together, each of us may transform a murder into a masterpiece, a demolition into a sculpture, or make a peaceful landscape into a war zone, covered in snow, as beautifully deceptive as she is. Indeed, when we scanned the picture from our perspective, zooming in on her goose bumps, never could we have guessed that by focusing on how cold she was, we would get burned?
Betrayal! Penetrate her Immaculate Conception, reveal the underlying guilt and, mock her pristine path laced with our footprints. Mark the white with black, an equal opposite that in time will become its own language and writing.
Allow "us" to introduce ourselves:
-Without actually splitting myself in two, I am multiple, a plural me. Not majestically, but ever so modestly, I achieve the impossible of creating my double, refusing to grant a male gender to the first person. And when it comes to verbs, I speak of them only so that I may conjugate them in every which way, but always in their feminine form.
Lest this riddle set your yead spinning, we shall make haste and give this enigmatic figure a face.
It's a girl! Of course, but she's not the first, others before her committed crimes, perhaps worse. You are accomplices. Buried amidst the ruins, like a blossom cut off from the rest of the world that shall, before your very eyes, open ours.
With both hands, I found the courage, in the golden Rhine and her flowing blonde mane. Upon her lips I tasted the blood of Siegfried. For my girl from Berlin was armed, poised for battle, and thus more beautiful than ever, slaying all contempt, also known as my shame, acting like a fur lining for my cloak of pride. I forded my way to where she lay drenched by a torrent of criticism, churning with Love and Hate, God and the Devil, Life and Death, and I cleared a trail. And in the eddy that closed in on me, to my anger I declared, "behold her beauty!"
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