Len Len's personal site: work, cooking, cycling, experiences

Oamenii prosti:

• ranesc fara sa-si dea seama si apoi repeta prostia din nou si din nou
• nici macar nu inteleg ce fac cand fac prostii sau si mai rau, cred ca fac bine sau ca buna intentie justifica tot
• nici macar nu merita sa te razbuni pe ei caci oricum n-ar intelege de ce o faci

Prostia nu scuza nimic, doar izoleaza.

Fear is running, fear is green, fear is knowing, fear is heavy. Fear is not an animal, it does not has its claws upon you. Instead it turns you into an animal, terrified, lost, running. I am afraid of stopping, of tomorrow, of disappointing, of hurting. I am afraid of being afraid. I am my fear. I must embrace myself and become the fear. Thus the fear will be no more.

Aceasta minunata, stricata, carcasa. (This wonderful, broken, shell). Frig, ud, toacla, alergare, bras, trepte, greutati, vant, arcoxia, celebrex, cald, nadragi, izmene, bengay, diclofenac, coacaze, peste.

Broken knee

O coliba de stuf galbuie, prafuita. Pare crescuta din pamantul lutos de aceiasi culoare, batatorit in jurul intrarii scunde. Am plecat amandoi spre oras, printre dune.
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A version of my old room and a calculator looking device. In has a folding, plastic, cover. Don’t touch the device, don’t touch the device. Too late. The ceiling is opening and I can see the moon, a yellow-orange, big moon. It’s something strange about the moon tonight. It seems to come closer, and closer. Close the DEVICE!

Too late, I’m on a hill, covered in grass. It’s dark, almost night, the grass is gray and on the top of the hill I can see a structure. It’s small, not even a story high but it seems to cover most of the hill top, in a rectangular shape. It’s dark now, and the moon is there again. I am walking up the gray, silver orange grass to the top of the hill. There is something there, a door. I’m inside. Looks like an old building, with large rooms, almost untouched by time, only the light of the moon is making strange reflections on the wall. A liquid is covering most of the stairs, and they all lead down, into the darkness. (more…)

Pe strada, spre buticul de la colt, sa iau pufuleti. Incet, ridic un picior si apoi altul. E greu, apasat. O platosa grea imi e agatata pe pulpe. O armura de fonta imi sta in spinare. O casca de tabla imi strange capul. Ma uit in jur, prin vizorul ingust. Si totusi oamenii nu se uita ciudat la mine, parca nici nu m-ar vedea. A inceput sa ploua, si stropii grei rezoneaza in tinicheaua de 2kg din cap. Stransa, botita si taioasa imi apasa tamplele care pompeaza cu putere. Pana la colt s-a oprit ploaia si am inceput sa scartai din toate incheieturile ruginite. Nici macar vanzatoarea nu se uita ciudat la mine, nici vecinul care mi-a tinut usa la lift, nici macar oglinda deabia montata in baie. Vad doar o fata lungita, cu cearcane si ochi rosii. Armura oboselii are kg invizibile care se simt doar prin tamplele care bat.