Nov 8, 2021

If summer comes

A boy with blue lips was smiling at him through the blizzard. The storm roared through the woods, fighting with the trees, and this kid showed up out of nowhere and was in front of him pointing at something. The tips of his fingers were black and sticky, and with two of them, he was guiding him back. The man turned to look, and through a break in the wind, he noticed a stone hut. It sat there small, square, with a single-window and drawn shutters, facing the weather for centuries.

In the absence of a path, any refuge was impossible to find, and tonight the hike had turned into an adventure where the protagonist becomes an example from which others can learn. However, the traveler did not panic, he meticulously continued his search even in the absence of a footpath. Where others would have turned around, he was walking forward with experienced steps. The traveler was on a mission, and the bad weather did not steer him back to the safety of the path, on the contrary. He was looking for his friends, lost in the mountains, far from any path in the dark depths of the forest. He had been a few steps from the cabin and had missed it, but luck had been on his side.

The kid was sitting in the middle of the storm with a torn T-shirt over his stomach, shaking from every joint. The traveler grabbed the boy's hand and dragged him into the cabin. The boy burst into tears trying to free himself, but nothing slowed the traveler, he pulled the boy firmly and safely inside.

"Michael? Is that you? Were you behind us?" he heard this from inside.

The traveler looked up and right in front of his eyes was the reason for this whole adventure. His two friends, Julian and Andrea, who had disappeared, were now well and good, looking at him amused and slightly puzzled. They had that look of  "what a coincidence to find you here". Michael looked at them uncertainly, they seemed to him like a mirage. Was there such a thing as a snow mirage? The cabin had been a fortune, but to discover them inside was truly miraculous.

"I found the little one outside, put a coat on him."

At the sight of the child, Andrea took off her jacket and jumped to help.

"Where did you find him?" Julian asked.

"He was outside by the cabin."

"In this weather?"

"Yea, just look at the way he's dressed."

Michael was visibly tired, breathing heavily after each reply.

"I'm glad we came across this shelter, can you imagine trying to pass the night in this weather," Julian mused contentedly.

"And where exactly have you two been? We've been looking for you for the past two days."

"Two days? Come on, you're exaggerating, we got a little ahead of you guys this morning. We climbed the Furor before you did, that's all."

"And why didn't you come back?"

"We went down the other ridge, maybe no one saw us."

"But that was two days ago."

"What are you even trying to say? We got a little lost and ended up here. What's the problem? Why do you keep saying two days? Today man, we reached the peak today."

A chill passed through Michael and he turned around with a strange presentiment. The cabin had a single room divided according to use, each wall was assigned a purpose. The wall that carried the front door had on the right a small table with cutlery for two and a bowl that announced it as a kitchen table. There was room for one person to sit. To the left of the door was a wooden hanger, made from a single white tree, it was resting on the floor on what seemed to be its roots. On the right wall, as you entered, sat the stove, and next to it the bed was covered with a simple blanket of faded gray. On the wall opposite the stove was a workbench with grinding and carving tools for wood. The table bore the marks of abuse, being chamfered and hollowed out by clumsy blows. The little cabin had only two chairs, each guarding its place in front of the tables.

Andrea put her coat on the boy and pulled him next to her, where he was completely numb.

"Honey, what were you doing all the way up here?"

The boy, in shock, remained silent. Michael was looking in his backpack for a flashlight.

"I'll hang it outside, if anyone else comes looking, they will find us."

Michael went out in the storm again with his flashlight and a cord ready. The snow caught his feet like a trap. At only 4 inches (ca. 10 cm), the snow seemed to cling to his legs and pull him back, making him move cautiously. "I would like to find an Eskimo and ask him what the hell they call this swampy snow," Michael thought as he clung to a tree. He secured the flashlight on a branch at one end. The wind seemed to be pulling on it in all directions, so Michael roped it tight on the other end, hoping it wouldn't be picked up and thrown in the middle of the forest. The wind seemed to intensify with every second spent fighting the branch. The howling wind was cutting his face with blades of ice, just sitting outside began to hurt. He covered his face and walked back blindly to the cabin.

He opened the door and heard Julian cursing.

"What happened?"

"Someone's pranking me," Julian said, sucking on his forefinger and thumb. "I was trying to light a fire and this match ... look, it went off in my hand like a firecracker.

Julian took the next match and propped it on the abrasive strip, then flung it with a flick into the stove. It ignited in the air and fell over a few yellowed papers where it began to burn tempestuously. Julian closed the stove's cast iron mouth.

"What did I tell you, someone's idea for a joke."

"You are the one to talk. At least I found you. How's the boy?"

"He fell asleep," Andrea replied.

"The next time you two wander into the woods, let someone else know, ok?" Michael controlled his tone, trying not to disturb the child.

"I really don't see what the problem is."

"Reckless," Michael murmured, "People get lost on this mountain all the time. We'd better be more careful."

Andrea put the boy by the stove and began rubbing his hands and feet. She wiped his fingers, but they remained black.

"What is that? that can't be ...", but Michael stopped, remembering the sharp wind outside.

"I don't think so," Andrea replied, taking the child's hands and pressing them to her own cheek. "They're warm", she smiled. "I think they're just stained."

"Strawberries and blackberries in this weather?" Julian mused.

The child was white as a ghost and had fallen asleep with his mouth open. Between the eggplant-shaded lips, even the boy's teeth seemed to have a bluish tinge.

"I have penicillin with me if he needs it", Michael turned to search in his backpack.

Andrea pulled her hand from the boy's forehead and motioned a "no".

Julian was staring out of the cabin through the small window.

"It's clearing up outside, it must be earlier than I thought. Do you have a watch?"

Michael took out his phone, it blinked "low battery" and turned black. Andrea tried her phone.

"It's dead."

"It's the cold," Julian shrugged. "That happened to the camera, while we were up there."

After a few moments of silence, Andrea took the two chairs and placed them next to the bed, fashioning a place for all four of them to sleep.

"We should try to rest," she said. "We have to get the little one back home tomorrow morning."

Lying on the side of the bed with their legs outstretched on the chairs, dressed from head to toe, the three closed their eyes and joined the boy in a dreamless sleep.


It was dark and cold when Michael woke up. The fire seemed to have been extinguished for a long time, and the position in which he slept had turned him crooked. He cracked his bones trying to rearrange himself proper. All in all, he was well-rested. He took a kettle hanging from a nail and went out as quietly as possible to gather firewood. He let the others sleep.

"Psst morning", Julian gently stroked Andrea.

With her tousled hair, Andrea wiped her eyes and answered with a yawn.

"Should we wake up Blue Tooth?" he asked.

The child slept between them with a smile on his face. The boy's skin had regained its pallor, but his teeth retained a bluish tinge.

"Give him some time". Andrea put her hand lightly on his forehead. "It's fine. We just have to figure out what to put on him when we get out of here."

"I'll give him my jacket and wrap myself with the blanket. I'll be fine until we get back to civilization," Julian assured her.

Michael entered the cabin with a kettle full of snow in one hand and a load of branches in the other. He had a strange grimace on his face, half frowning, half constipated, he looked ridiculously serious. Michael scanned them from head to toe. He set the kettle and the wood next to the stove and took out a piece of rusty iron out of his pocket.

"There is something very strange going on here," he said.


"This is my flashlight."

"How can that be your flashlight?

"I tied it to that mountain-ash just outside. It IS my flashlight."

Julian approached and looked at the rusty flashlight like a wounded animal.

"Are you sure?"

"I tied it with my own hand."

"And it rusted, just like that, overnight?"

"Yes, while we slept."

"That's just great, what type of Chinese crap is this?"

Julian took the flashlight from his hand.

"That's not even the weirdest part. While I was out gathering wood ... I saw the sunrise twice.

"You saw what? How?"

"I don't know how."

"You mean the sun changed its mind? Maybe it forgot something and went back to get it."

"It's not a joke, if we wait ... I think it will happen again."

Julian sat down on a chair studying the flashlight. At his back, the day turned to twilight, and then to night. Andrea approached Michael and asked him in a whisper.

"What does this mean?"

"It means another day has passed," Michael said looking outside unnerved.

"What do you mean another day has passed? We just got up. How long now? Fifteen minutes? and it's already the next day?" Julian mocked them.

"That flashlight has been outside for weeks, maybe even months ..."

"That's nonsense," Julian said as he hurried out the door.

"Jules noo", that's all Andrea managed to say, but Julian was already out.

The two looked at him from the doorway.

"It's nothing, it's just cloudy. Michael buddy, I think you got that disease, what's it called ... "cabin fever". And you, dear, you got it from him. It's that type of crazy you can catch. Just one day in the wilderness and you've both lost your minds. What the hell are you looking at me like that for? Did my beard start to grow or something? Come on, really, it's nothing.

Andrea joined him looking around. There was nothing unusual around the cabin. Michael was looking at the cloudy sky. Suddenly the clouds dissolved, revealing the black heavens.

"Look, Julian, stars."

"What are they doing ..."

"Revolving around the Northern Star."

"They can't be moving that fast" Julian continued aghast.

"Inside!" Andrea ordered.

The three of them entered and Andrea slammed the door, putting her body in front of the entrance.

"Are we ok in here? What's going on outside?"

"I don't know," Michael replied. "I need time to think. Let me think ..."

Julian put two fingers in his pocket and took out a matchbox "Bean & Sons - Guaranteed to light up even after weeks in humid conditions". The guarantee was written, on the package, larger than the company name. Julian took out one of the camping matches and pressed it to the abrasive strip.

"Time outside is clearly fucked up, let's see if it's equally fucked up inside, and saying this he struck the match over the wood in the stove.

The wood instantly turned into torches and then began to glow like embers. Michael looked bewildered at the speed and violence of the fire.

"We need to wake the kid and leave. Now!"

"Boy, we have to go," Andrea snapped.

Andrea picked up the boy and dressed him. Michael took his backpack, tightening the belts close to his body. Julian pulled the blanket over his shoulders, while Michael tied it around his waist. The child tried to resist but to no avail.

"I don't want to go out, I don't want to go out anymore," he managed to say.

"We don't have a choice kid, if we don't leave now, we may never leave," Julian insisted.

"Are we ready? Come on ... don't ... leave the fire," Michael said.

Julian glanced out through the small window above the working desk and stopped. He swallowed hard trying to find his words.

"Too late," he said at last.

In front of the cabin, the snow seemed to come out of the ground. It grew flooding the forest. Wave after wave, higher and higher, up to the knees, then up to the hips, higher and higher without stopping. The cabin sank into a white sea that frothed all the trees wave after wave.

After a few tense moments, Michael dropped his backpack from his shoulders and deflated. Julian fell into a chair and sat in amazement watching the show outside.

"Aren't we going to leave?" Andrea asked.

"It would bury us alive" replied Michael, staring blankly.

"If we had been faster..." Andrea began.

"If we had been faster, we would have ended up as Popsicles", Julian cut her off.

Michael reset to a previous state avoiding looking outside. He checked the stove with his unmittened hand and decided to undress. He rummaged deep in his backpack and pulled out a can of meat and a few single-serving instant coffee packets. He picked up the kettle with snow and watched in amazement as it began to bubble with boiling water in a matter of seconds. He poured the coffee into the water and contemplated the fate of the can. He unwrapped the branded paper and made sure it touched the stove for just a moment. After that he motioned for the others to approach. Michael was searching for a piece of bread when Andrea stopped him.

"Wait, we might have something", she took out four black biscuits as thick as a finger from her backpack.

Michael took something resembling cooked meat and spread it on each biscuit in equal proportions. Andrea found some polished metal cups in the cupboard under the kitchen table and dusted them off.

"Should I give him some?" She asked, tilting her head toward the boy.

"Yeah, he deserves some too."

The child gaped at the coffee and nodded. Julian couldn't take his eyes off the snow. Andrea brought him a biscuit to eat at the window.

"What's going on outside?" she asked.

"It's snowing," Julian said. "That's what it looks like when it snows."

They ate their biscuits softly, letting each bite last as long as possible. Their food was the only normal thing around them. Morning came once again outside and now the dance of the snow dunes was fully visible.

"Thanks for the grub", Julian said, then, looking at Andrea, he continued. "Remember when we said we would get old and fat together? One of those things might come sooner than you think."

Andrea looked at her hands, counted the cuts and wrinkles in her skin, and considered the places where her veins came to the surface. Even with all the paranoia, they still looked fine. But who really looks that closely at their own hands, maybe they were changed, maybe not. They didn't feel any different. "The nails, yes ... shouldn't they have grown?", she thought.

"Time seems to pass us by. I don't think we're aging, but possibly everyone else is", Michael supposed.

"You have no way of knowing until we get out of here ..." Julian reckoned without waiting for an answer.

They calmed down, the first instinct to flee had passed. The cabin was protecting them, they were safe inside. They were silent, thoughtful, and pondered the issue of escape. Sitting still, they listened to the sounds from outside trying to understand them. They looked around for an explanation, and hung their eyes on every detail, the tools, the chairs, the stove, the strange coat hanger. They were looking for a button that would stop all of this. Julian began to feel the carving tools, sharp metal rods that did not reveal their purpose to a layman.

After investigating the whole room, Michael was now studying the boy. Andrea approached the child.

"Can you tell me your name?"

The boy was silent.

"I'm Andrea, he's Michael and that's Jules by the window."

"Peter", he whispered.

"What a serious name you have Peter. Can you tell me why you're dressed like that?" Michael tried.

The coffee helped the child's shyness, he was eager to talk.

"I don't know," he snapped.

"Do you remember how you got here?"

"I came ... I came with my parents on a trip."

"What happened to them?"

"I got lost... I don't know."

Peter wanted to start crying, but Michael looked at him unemotionally, there was no place for crying in this discussion, so he refrained.

"I kept looking for them, but I didn't find them, I lost them ..."

"He couldn't have gone that far on these slopes." Julian turned his attention back towards them.

"I walked for a long time," the child reproached him. "I got tired, I fell asleep, but it wasn't cold. When I got up, it got ripped," and the child pulled on his T-shirt as proof.

"It's okay, we can sow that up. How did you get to the cabin?"

"It got cold, I was frightened, I was running ... and then I found it."

"That's when you saw me?" Michael continued.


Michael smiled and patted the child.

"Okay Peter, I understand".

Michael looked outside and then looked back at the boy. An idea sprouted in his head, a possible exit.

"Pete here got lost in the woods when it was still warm."

"I would think so, the way he's dressed."

"And he didn't stay out for too long, he couldn't have. For him, winter landed just yesterday. This weather wasn't even in the forecast when we went climbing this damn mountain."

"That's usual mountain weather for ya, but who knows how things work in this little corner of heaven," Julian shrugged.

"I don't think things work that differently. Things move faster, yes, but otherwise everything is the same. The stars are in the sky, the weather is changing and the seasons are flowing. We shouldn't hurry, if we wait quietly for two or three days, we will leave this place in the summer.

"Time flies and the best thing to do is not to hurry", contemplated Andrea.

"Oh the irony, but I think he's right," Julian agreed finishing his coffee and continued cheerfully, "that's our way out".


"Can you imagine the look on their faces when we get back? What are we going to tell them? Oh, the ground ate us up for a few months, but we're fine. And the boy? Well, we found a boy in the woods", Julian was amusing himself.

Peter was sitting in a corner, looking morose and wanting his parents to come and pick him up. Andrea turned him toward her.

"It's not your fault Peter, I'm sure your parents will be very happy to see you no matter when we come back."

Peter didn't seem very convinced.

"Do you think people know about this place?" Julian continued.

Michael spun a finger in the air.

"Someone knew," he replied, "Someone built this cabin, and it wasn't aliens."

"Maybe it's a refuge," Andrea said.

"A refuge for strays like us?"

"Maybe for the locals. Someone spent a lot of time here. I think someone lived here. Look at the kitchen, look at that workbench."

"Maybe they hid here," Michael added.

"Hid from what?" Julian asked.

"I don't know, their problems. How old are these things? Maybe the Russians were invading, or the french, or the germans.

"What about the Mongols" Julian continued, as the three of them smiled, "I can't quite figure out, how can anyone live here?" 

"It's simple, you plant your tomatoes today and pick them tomorrow," explained Andrea.

"And when you finally go pick up some vegetable oil from the store, you'll find people driving flying cars," Julian added.

"We shouldn't tell anybody, we should leave this place hidden."

"You think the Mongols will be making a come back?" Julian was pulling his leg now.

"No, not that, I was thinking maybe we keep this place for ourselves."

Julian flicked a copper still and listened to the strange high-pitched ringing it produced.

"Nobody would believe us anyway."

"And now? What are we going to do now?" Andrea asked.

"Now we wait and see if summer comes." 

Photo by Polina Barinova @LOOP12098
Versiunea în română: Daca vine vara
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May 20, 2020

The friendship train

"You would think life could be better but you would be wrong"

I'm standing on the train taking me home. Don't get me wrong, I have a seat, I have a ticket with an assigned seat and so I could take a seat on the train taking me home. But it's a shitty seat, it's full of shit. I mean to say, there's a lot of shit on my seat, spreading on the backrest. It looks like goose droppings, or bird droppings anyway, I should taste it to figure it out. Not that I eat shit with such regularity that I would guess it’s origin from the first tasting, but instinctively something tells me it would give itself away. You know how you can tell by taste if an egg is from a a goose or a hen, well so it must be with this shit. It's white, with some greenish yellow. I'll remember this shit for some time to come. Maybe I could trick my chairmate into eating it, he has the face of a man who has eaten a lot of shit in his life, what’s another tasting from the back of my chair. Ehh, I'm losing my temper, no matter what creature shat on my chair, this will keep me up standing all the way to Buzau. So I sit in the hallway next to the rows of chairs and push my back against the window. I can hardly let all these chubby ladies get by me. The corridor is tight, too tight not to rub your ass or tits on me, it’s a real friendly train.
I am in Bucharest-Chisinau proclaimed “The Friendship Train" by the voice of the North Station. It's a long train made up of dark green wagons with white stripes and completed at the end by a few burgundy carriages. The green ones are Moldavian but look Russian by their letters, and the burgundy ones are Romanian by their rust. They are ugly fat conductors from both countries in the corridors, haunting like ghosts in search of tickets and bribes. I like them, they look like the kind of people who would steal your wallet and have a beer with your cash at the next station. That's why I like them, I like that they would drink, I like that they would steal your money for such a simple pleasure, so honest. It must be wonderful to have a job on the move, to be a professional passenger, without responsibilities, to go from car to car as in a ship at sea.
The train is intangible as long as it moves, the snow, the people, the animals, the motorcars, they are all pulverized if they don’t get out of the way. Come to think of it, the engineer doesn't have any responsibilities either, if he sees you on the rails, it's already too late to matter. What an adrenaline rush, smashing cars on the railway. Shitty salary, of course, but those days when you slap a minibus around must be worth it. I can see him opening his little window and swearing at the people jumping left and right in little pieces: "Damn commuters, next time take the train". Where else do you get the opportunity to literally smash your competition. Cheers of joy and approval coming from behind “Yes sir, they deserved it, why where they on the railway in the first place”.
The train goes slowly towards our Moldavian brothers or our Moldavian cousins or our Moldavian racketeering uncles. I have nothing against our neighbors, the Moldavian drunks, and the Moldavian ladies aren’t bad either. So towards them, towards our Moldavians. And these Moldavian chicks look at my seat with longing, it’s the only empty seat in this whole stinking train. These red-haired girls decide that it's not so bad to sit with shit at their backs and they convince themselves, that they will not lean backwards, that they will sit firmly on their buttocks for several hundred kilometers paying attention to an exercise in posture. One of them comes to me and asks me shyly, pressed, confidentially, so that none of the others can hear, if the seat is free. I smile, nod my head up and down, and answer "no". I can’t remember where I heard Russians nod like this when saying “no”, but I was wrong because this confused girl sat on my chair anyway and assumed the stiff back position. I wanted to tell her that the seat was indeed taken, but that would mean I'm somewhat of an ass-hat, and no one wants to admit that to himself.
Reconciled with the lost seat I start having a better look at those seated next to me. Tough hands sit on the chairs next to me, worked hands, sunburned, muscles gained through work sit next to me. Veins from sun-baked hands sit next to me.
An old man is huddled together with two others, three of them on two seats. He sits with his cap on one side, you'd say he's a sailor if we weren't so far from the sea. The old man is slender and looks tougher than the young moujiks next to him. They’re construction workers, they insulate communist apartment buildings during the week and return home on weekends. The capital demands heavy hands for good money and these men break their backs on scaffolding for it.
The old man has faded blue eyes and a sort of finality in him. It seems to me that his back held him up right just enough to get himself seated, that once seated he got stuck in the soft fake skin of the chair. A chair presumably without goose shit on it. That's just a guess, because I didn't get to see their chairs, they were all seated when I showed up. I think someone put a goose over the chairs on the luggage rack and from there “bombs away” on my backrest. But that happened on another trip, because now there's no trace of a goose. More than likely a  goose, but I'm not getting into that again.
A thread of light penetrates through the curtains and falls on the eyes of the young worker next to the window. Gramps takes off his cap, revealing a thick bald spot, and puts it over the lad nailed by the light beam.
“Is that better?”, he asked.
“Thanks pops”.
The old man dries up a one-liter bottle of beer and tosses it in a saddlebag between his legs like a well-done thing. Then, still with his hand in the saddlebag, he secretly takes out a bottle of colored spirits, washing his mouth with it he then passes it along to the fellow next to him. A boy with ripped knee jeans takes a mouthful and a glaze moves over his eyes. He rubs his face and smiles at the old man. The old man winks at him and nods to pass it along. To their right by the window in a half-open hoodie with no T-shirt on is the lad who was trying to take a catnap. The unshaven man takes a eager mouthful and wakes up immediately jumping on his feet.
The liquor tickles their tongues and makes them talk.
In front of them, next to the chair that would have been mine, is the fourth scaffolder, he is sweating with his hair glued to his forehead. I've never seen a man with so many muscles have a more embarrassed look on his face. More robust than the others, he had broad shoulders and his nose was broken to the right. His nose made him ugly and gave him a hissing breath. He licked his upper lip when he spoke, but preferred to be silent. The old man did not hand him the talkative liquor, he took another swill and put it half empty back in the bag.
It was obvious the old man had been handsome in his youth, but from his stories this hadn’t helped him at all. He had taken up a beautiful wife who pretended to work when he was home but was the village whore for the rest of the time. The young men were grinning from ear to ear as the old man flourished his life stories so they would learn from his mistakes and avoid beautiful women.

This filthy train is full to the brim with people, but these scaffolders are next to me and I like to listen to them. Of course, there are also Merlin Monroe hotties with windy hair and sunglasses. Not to mention brunettes half-melted in their chairs, who remember from time to time not to sit bow-legged on a train crowded with construction workers. There are guys with earrings in their ears and a dubious looking dude with an nail in his eyebrow.
A lass with sunglasses takes a long look at me, I must have admired her too intensely or maybe she wants to scold me for rubbing against all these women fluttering around back and forth on the train. She takes off her glasses and looks at me, she has deep dark circles around her eyes. I whisper to her like a prayer, “Don't love, put the glasses back on, you look much cooler with them on”.
I can't believe it ... she listened to me ... Or maybe she read my lips who knows. Now she’s bored playing with her feet under the chair. I should go over there and figure her out ... I should... 
Oh my God, this hellion in front of me... she’s the mother of all chatterboxes, I can't have a strait thought in my head for all the noise she’s making. She is standing in front of me turning some poor bastard’s head into mush. I can only see this poor man’s head nodding. She has a book in her hand, but in an hour and a half she hasn’t put it to her eyes once. She hasn’t stop talking all this time. I can't think anymore, damn it.
I take refuge between the wagons for a bit of peace, here the rails break beneath my feet but at least I can’t hear that woman's voice. I sit in that place between the wagons, with two metal plates sandwiched between me and the angry ground below. Between the bellows and the metal plates I can see a torrent of earth, gravel and railway sleepers flowing under me. I get dizzy, I try not to look. It's an adventure up here between the wagons, death is close and the cigarettes taste better. This is the last place where you can smoke on the train, the last quiet place, until they’re modernized into airtight passages. Fuck them with their modernization… Fuck innovation. Fuck it.

Photo by Paul @causeimluap
Versiunea în română: Trenul prieteniei
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Jan 15, 2020

Guru - The Magnificent

In love since the world began ... and thus I am what I am...

Suddenly there was light, and it burned the perfect. The old world burned hot and nobody and nothing could hide. The last detritus of darkness that remained gathered up and made the earth, the last peaceful place. And there in the last refuge of the old world came to rest the last of the pure.
The Magnificent came bitten by light and burned by the heat, his body covered with welts and disease. Angry with the light the Magnificent could not hide from it in any way, he saw it with his eyes closed. His skin itched even when he took it off.
Tired, the Magnificent found his rest on earth. The skin of the giant, reddish and afflicted, was soothed by the cool air of darkness. The living pus born under his skin erupted with despair in the absence of light. With the disease spilled, the Magnificent’s itch disappeared, the plague had died in the darkness and he could finally sleep. The first life had been born and was extinguished in the new world.
The Magnificent arranged his over one hundred arms and laid down on the clean ground. But before He sat He sneezed and grass sprouted around Him. The Magnificent's eye closed and He fell asleep.
Unable to bear the light, the black earth began to heat up and boil, and the boiled earth moved back behind the cold one and thus carried the Magnificent over the horizon. The Magnificent saw the first morning of the new world. Dew appeared on the blades of grass beside Him. Underneath His breath pebbles of water sprouted wings and took to the air.
With the coming of light the grass began to hold the Magnificent closer. The Magnificent tried to get up, but thick vines grabbed Him by the arms and stapled Him to the ground. The Magnificent struggled and found there was only one way to escape: He ripped Himself from the trap, leaving his arms behind. Only two remained from over a hundred. The giant was now flying over the earth in fear, as His blood came to life. Terrible forms, vermin of all kinds began to worm in the ground. And all these beasts were stretching up to the Magnificent trying to catch Him. He rose higher and higher, as He kept away from them. Once left alone, the unclean, devoid of His presence, began to spread around the earth.
The magnificent descended upon the earth somewhere far in the mountains surrounded by skies, followed only by the golden dragonflies born in the dew of the morning. At first, He liked their company, but they were imperfect and they fed on Him, constantly buzzing. The Magnificent smacked them terribly, spreading them all over the earth. Some of them lost their wings, and came on the ground making countless nations of beetles and bugs, others still fly to this day, searching for Him.
The Magnificent started building the black wall. A wall that separates the light from the dark, a wall that left room for the clean and the unclean. A wall that would keep the light with its corruption away from Him. The wall was of black marble, clean as the abyss and bound perfectly, brick by brick, as if in one solid piece that neither hand nor eye could tell if it was one part or many. The Magnificent found his peace and slept again for the second time, this time behind the black marble wall.
But His sleep could not last forever, for there in the darkness began the crisp sound of scraping, something was eating away at the black wall. Something with teeth attacked the darkness, it was no longer the light itself but its creatures. At first the giant tried to ignore them, to give them peace, he pulled his hair to one side, opened his skull, and scratched inside himself where he heard the noise, and let it pass. But the creatures insisted and the Magnificent could feel the black wall suffering from the rodents. The Magnificent, in his sleep, made a fist out of his seven fingers and struck the wall with force, breaking the teeth of the little creatures.
It didn't take long and new beings began to dig after the Magnificent, this time the children of rats had teeth made of steel and unwavering will. Unbroken by fear or fatigue these where powerful creatures of the sun. It didn't take long for such a creature of flesh and bone to crack the black wall and find the Magnificent.
“We're the same,” the rat-men said. “We have a mouth, You have a mouth, we have two hands, You have two hands, we have needs and You have needs. You are our father and we have been looking for you.”
The Magnificent saw the creatures and recoiled. His blood, polluted by light, had given birth to sick creatures without understanding and little life.
“You were never of my will. Many are your wants and great is your iniquity. You of feeble mind, you did not understand the wall was laid here for the peace of the world. You have awakened the “cleanses” that only wanted silence and darkness. You will suffer for your upheaval.”
“If the wall could not hold you then let my words hold you: If I awake for a third time, on this earth, it will be your end. I will end all creatures, from the lichen sitting on the cold dark stone to the sunflower stretched towards the light, from the worms hidden in dampness to the lizards unfolding in the sun. All will perish on the day I wake up for the third time from my rest.”
“We truly were witless in looking for you. We've opened the gates of hell in our foolishness,” the rat-men, with feeble minds, bemoaned.
And the Magnificent took pity on them, because their blood was His blood, and He made them a promise of absolution.
“The time will come when the light will pass and the new world will become old. You will not catch this day, nor will your children, but in the time to come the line of your descent will see the last day of the sun. If by then you will brake from the light I will accept you by My side.” 
And they were pleading before the Magnificent asking for wisdom so they may not be foolish again. And the Magnificent took their steel teeth and weakened their backs until they were crooked, making them helpless in the body so they may learn to think more. He sent them back in the light with care and wisdom, teaching them to read and write, so that their weak minds would not forget the covenant. And so the two worlds had peace.
Because the rat-men were in the presence of the Father, they lived long lives and taught everyone to stay away from the black wall. During their time, the men whispered in the ears of all animals “the burden”, to keep them safe. And those who did not listen or did not want to listen where enslaved, and were put in the yoke. So they may not err willingly or unwillingly, because transgression nonetheless has the same punishment from the Magnificent.
They also taught people that diseases hail from the “cleanses” of the earth, which come after us when they are disturbed. They come to restrain us from the much heavier fate we are destined to have if we ever rouse the Magnificent from his rest. They taught us it is better to stay few and far between because the orgy of life calls the “cleanses”. Playing foolish, loud music and dancing calls the “cleanses”. But also the suffering and torment calls them, and the rat-men have written down that is better to stop the suffering and pain wherever it is found, for crying calls the “cleanses”.
From the teachings of the Magnificent let us draw good thoughts. With the coming of the evening, we bring in our hearts once again the night's devotion:

I see the light is gone and I confidently open my window to darkness.
I know the sun will die and with it the defilement will pass.
With sure hands, I open the window to darkness and wait for the last day to come.
Through my children I swear and believe in the first day that will be without light.

Versiunea în română: Guru - Magnificul

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Jul 14, 2019

The painter

"You're so strange,
I'm glad you didn’t change."

In the corner of the room, a homunculus with multicolored teeth smiled at the sky beyond the ceiling. The homunculus gazed through the ceiling like a window, his gaze passing through 10 floors full of people. He saw through dusty carpets, through tall cabinets and long beds, through the surface cleanliness and the hidden messiness. He stared straight through the apartment building like it was an aquarium, watching the hidden souls in their skulls, glancing from one floor to another.
The people on the first floor were lame and mono-colored, on the next floor the people were like children and did not understand the world. One floor above that, stray dogs were remembering the good times. And so it went all the way to the roof, where, after passing a bald head tanning its self, the homunculus finally saw the sky.

"What's that on your mouth?" a feminine voice addressed the heap of unsorted fabrics and uncombed tissues from the corner of the room.
The feminine presence had appeared quite unexpectedly from the door. The creature trembled at the sound of her voice, withdrawing his gaze from the walls, he turned back into a half-man to answer.
"It's blue," he answered with an unexercised voice. He felt the need to clear his throat, but he abstained, too many sounds would have given him away.
"Blue, from what?" asked suspiciously the woman that the homunculus recognized as his better half. She looked at him as if she deserved some answers.
"From currants and blueberries, from cornflowers, from sadness ... from these oil paints" he finally admitted when there was only one thing left to say.
The creature had grown fingers and pointed to a corner filled with strangled colors. The woman could not tell if there were more empty paint tubes than usual, his room was always messy.
"What did you do?" she asked with a hint of panic in her voice.
The homunculus looked at her slightly bemused, he could see little creatures gathering on her forehead, working to make an expression of worry. All their work pulsating under her thin skin. The wrinkles gathered at the edge of her eyes like a storm. The homunculus reformed to humanity, returning to the constitution of "the painter". She was pulling him back from the lunacy and wildness.
The painter remembered how much he liked to see her angry. She looked better angry rather than happy, her face caught a vigor and suppleness that he enjoyed. When she smiled all her lines would brake and nothing flowed anymore, her cheeks would lose their shape, her face would widen, and her eyes would squeeze in. The painter disliked all these things, and with this aesthetic sense he felt selfish. He liked to see her upset, and even angry. She looked sharp and cutting when furious, with a pulsating rhythm what wouldn’t let her stand still, a fiery beauty. But now her face only showed worry, her expression drew confused feelings in him. What did she want? Was he not clear?
"I ate some colors," the painter continued, with a smile that disclosed his colorful teeth.
"Are you crazy, come on, are you serious? You have to vomit! I'm gonna take you to the hospital."
"No, please, let me die," the painter replied melodramatically.
She pulled him up by the armpits and pushed him to the bathroom. The painter dropped without resisting. It was amusing to be dragged around, and if he had opposed the game, it would have ceased.
"Let me be, I want to be colored on the inside," he tried to explain.
"God knows what's in these paints, you have to puke them out, do you hear me?"
She put his head down in front of the toilet bowl, pushing him towards the water.
"Put your hand down your throat, you have to vomit, do it or I’ll do it for you."
The painter finally understood she didn’t have any appreciation for his gesture.
"Leave me alone."
"You idiot, do you want to die?"
The girl shoved two fingers down his throat, irrespective of his opposition. For a moment the painter contemplated whether to bite her. The thought of such enormity shamed him. A deep sense of guilt pressed his chest and he spewed his guts in the form of an apology.
He regurgitated a multicolored rainbow of sick. Red, yellow, blue, green and purple splashed the toilet bowl again and again, each pulse bringing up a new composition. Now the painter wanted to vomit, he wanted to produce more, more and more. Feeling it end, he pressed his stomach to squeeze out the last drops.
They both fell exhausted near the bath's porcelain fixtures, she at the foot of the sink, and him with his forehead glued to the cold toilet.
"You are like a flower ... so pleasantly dour," whispered the painter.
"You want to be a poet now? Why do I keep fooling myself. You’re driving me crazy? I'm gonna blow my brains out."
"If you want to do it, do it, but look for a white wall, and leave a note with the name of your opera. Now that's an idea, to literally paint your brains away.
"As you can see, the artist's brains have oozed in the most extraordinary way. This testamentary work can not be assigned a value", she sighed. "Didn't you say that all critics are idiots. Why am I playing your game?"
"You're attracted to tragedy."
"Like fly's to shit, but what's so tragic about you?"
The painter looked in the toilet bowl and then turned to her.
"As you can see, all my potential is going down the drain."
"And what did you want me to do, let you die?"
"Yes," he replied with a sob. "Then my work would have achieved its end."
"Shouldn’t you actually make something, so you are remembered after you die?"
"It's all about the audience. The man who will do my autopsy will be marked for life, he will live with my work in his head, "the painter with the colored insides", he will think of me at night. I will pop in his thoughts when he least expects it."
"Dreams of colored guts ... idiot," she said pushing him with her foot.
"Did I miss something?"
"Did you forget about me. I love you, doesn't that matter to you at all? Did you ever think of me?"
"This isn't about you, I was thinking artistically, if I manage to get in someone's head even with a single work, then I can really say I'm an artist, it doesn’t matter if I die."
"One coroner will see you at the morgue, once, after you die, is that your audience?"
"You're right, okay, it's over. I was trying to put some excitement back into the idea, but I can’t, bugs are crawling all over it. Are you happy now?"
"Why exactly the colors?"
"I wanted to feel something. I wanted to be depressed, to feel melancholy, I wanted something to long for ... so I ate the blue." 
"You're crazy, that’s insane. I can’t even talk to you anymore."
"I would have died happily painting my insides, but no, you couldn't have that. Don’t flush it, look how beautiful it is."
Paint splashes were mixing between them. The painter was lost in the color of the toilet bowl, smiling absurdly at his moving work.
"I'll be right back, don’t do anything stupid." The painter’s better half returned with a bottle of mineral water.
"You'll drink it and puke the rest of the paint out."
"You want to drain me. Have you no pity?"
"You either drink it or I'll take you to the hospital and there they’ll scrub it out of your insides."
"Can’t you see this is my first original work. This is all that matters."
"Let's get some air."
The two half-joined into a two-headed old man. The old man crawled up to the balcony where he sat down on the floor. With one of his mouths sucking on the water bottle.
"Why do you make me do all these things, do you want to hate me?" her mouth asked.
Crooked with shivers the painter received a clean sheet over his shoulders.
"Do you think I like this life?" she continued. "Do you think I'm happy? I love you, but you have to help me out. Go on, drink all your water."
The painter spooned in the last of the water.
"And now?" he asked, rising from below, wearing his sheet like a cloak.
"Now you have to vomit … again."

In the bathroom, a dazzling geyser of different colors came out from his nose and mouth.
"Sea water," he said, "from which comes Aphrodite in all the paintings."
After a moment of silence she asked gently.
"What do they taste like?"
"Extraordinary, they taste great, except somewhat unexpected. The blue looked cold and melancholic but it tasted like autumn ice cream, while white tasted like toothpaste..."
His consort raised a pinched tube from the tiles.
"This one was the toothpaste," she said playfully.
"They all look the same", the painter excused himself.
"I hope you didn’t eat my hand cream."
"Coconut...", the painter said after a moment of thought. 
"I'll buy another one. Are you better now?"
The painter examined his hands, they looked almost human.
"Yes, I think so," he replied.

Versiunea în română: Pictorul
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Nov 19, 2018

The snowman

The cold wind stopped and let the first snow of the year settle on the ground. This first snowfall was thin and shallow, snow that would melt in your hand before you could make a snowball, but it was the first one so we have to count it.
The evening came and a second downfall doubled the first. The children began to gather it up from atop the cold cars, concrete fences and sidewalks. This was now enough to make the first snowballs of that winter. As usual the noisy kids threw the snowballs at the quiet kids and soon enough a merry good time contaminated all the youngsters in the neighborhood.
Later, after the last parents arrived home, a dutiful girl named Bianca dressed her self up in a red jacket and went outside to play. Most of the children were going back inside this late in the evening, but she didn't care, enough snow had fallen for what she really wanted ... a snowman.
Bianca had chosen the place carefully, a garden between two apartment buildings that stood back-to-back. A knee-high fence and a rust-welded gate separated the garden from the rest of the world. This place received the barest of lights from a tired sodium lamp post in the corner of the street. The place was secluded from prying eyes on the ground, but occasionally curious eyes still flowed down from the two tenements.
Bianca inspected the ground. There was plenty of space and lots of room for self-expression. Protected from the sun and the wind, the snowman would have a good life here. The girl carefully gathered the first snowball trying to make it perfectly round. From this snowball a small globe was born and then a sphere of snow that moved around and gathered up mass like a magnet.
Sticky flakes were still falling from the sky when Bianca sat down wearily next to the half-finished snowman and spoke:
"If it's going to keep snowing, tomorrow I'll get your head done. After that you'll need your eyes, your arms and a heart."

The next day, Bianca once again walked out quite late and quickly jumped the fence into the garden to complete the snowman. She stood in the shimmering glow of the street lamp shaping the snow.
She finished the snowman and almost flew back home, where she sneaked in like a mouse, making sure her parents didn't hear her. She pulled out two dried up walnut branches from behind the coat-rack in the entrance hallway, then took two shiny black stones from a pair-less shoe thrown in the back of the shoe cupboard. She put her hand on the knob of the kitchen door and gently opened it making sure it didn't do its usual crick. She entered searching for the last piece of the snowman.
With her hands full of gifts she returned to the snowman. She placed his walnut hands, fixed his eyes and with her frozen hands, caressed what looked like blue glass. Bianca opened the snowman's chest and transplanted the icy heart inside. She pressed the snow back in his chest and whispered.
"You're alive now."

On the third day coming from school, the girl glanced between the tenements. The snowman stood with a hand raised to heaven as if saying "hey". Bianca smiled, and continued running home, where she eagerly waited for her parents to come home. Once they got home Bianca headed back out to her secret garden, where the snowman greeted her once again with a trembling hand in the wind.
"How are you, I've missed you so much," said the girl, hugging him.
The snowman didn't answer.
"Why aren't you talking to me? don't be angry ... I brought you back as soon as I could, and just look at this place, the wind and the sun will never hit you".
The snowman did not look very impressed.
"Should I tell you what's been happening since we've last seen each other? I came 2nd in my class, that was last summer, then I left with mom and dad to the sea side. I made sand castles there. It's beautiful there, waves of green water, seagulls and boats float everywhere on the sea.
A faint wind carried a few words to the girl's ears.
"Well ... you did promise me some sand."
"You came back, I knew you would." Bianca hugged him, and the snowman, in turn, hugged the girl squeezing her red jacket. 
"Where have you been?"
"I was taking a nap. You've grown so big," he said.
"See this is the jacket from last year, it barely fits anymore."
"Where are the others, I haven't seen any kids here."
"I didn't make you at the playground, the kids are mean there."
"What do you mean?" the snowman asked surprised.
"They have snowball fights."
"Well, what's wrong with that?"
"They pinned me down and rubbed snow on my face, I don't want to play with them anymore."
"Bianca you shouldn't hide from your friends."
"They're not my friends anymore, I'll stay here with you and we'll play together."
"I liked it when other kids were around with their snowmen. Do you remember d'Artagnan? he had that sword carved from a fir tree and we used to fight every night."
"I don't want to play with them."
"Come on Bianca it's just snow," he tried to improve her mood, then took a handful of snow and poured it on his head.
"It's not the same, you wouldn't have liked it either."
The snowman drew a circle in the snow.
"When you were little, Bianca, you could play for hours in a circle as big as this, but now you've grown up, you shouldn't just sit around here when you can go and play all over."
Bianca began to add petals to the circle turning it into a big flower.
"You should try to get along with them," tested the snowman again.
"Boys are stupid. I'm not playing with them anymore."
"What about the girls?"
"They moved... just Anna is left and she can't come out this late."
The snowman looked around and took a piece of tinsel hanging from a tree in the garden.
"Bianca you need to make new friends, you can't just sit around and talk to a snowman until you're an old lady. You have to promise this is the last time you bring me back."
"What do you mean, you don't want to come back anymore?
"Bianca, big girls don't play with snowmen. I don't want to see you hiding from other kids.
"But I like it this way."
"No Bianca, promise me this is the last time. When spring comes you'll take the heart and you'll bury it."
"Why?" asked the girl indignant.
"You have to make real friends."
The snowman took the tinsel and placed it over her head.
"That look's good on you, if only d'Artagnan could see you now he would laugh and laugh."
Bianca took the tinsel pouting, she put it on the snowman.
"Well, ok, I promise," she said.
The snowman hugged her again.
"Now let's see what you've learned at school since I last saw you. Tell me, quickly, three cold capitals."
"Ottawa, Moscow and Helsinki. Now you tell me three small seas," she countered.
"The Black Sea, the Dead Sea and the Marmara Sea, you have three seconds to tell me three active volcanoes," continued the snowman.
"Etna, Vesuvius and ... pass. Three colors starting with the letter - r ?"
"Red, rose and rainbow. I can't believe you haven't learned three volcanoes. Tell me three high mountains."
"The Himalayas, Kilimanjaro and the Pyrenees, but rainbow isn't a color. Three precious stones?"
"Diamond, ruby and ... you know it's getting late, you better run back home."
"You don't know?" giggled the girl.
"I'll let you know tomorrow," mustered the snowman.
"Okay, but I warn you, I'll ask again." 
And with that Bianca said goodbye to the snowman and went back home, tired but happy.

The next day Bianca came back holding something behind her back.
"I have a surprise for you," she said.
"What do you have there?"
"Close your eyes."
"I can't close them, I don't have any eyelids, how about I put my hands over my eyes."
"All right, but don't cheat."
"Ok ok no cheating."
The snowman heard something being poured beside him, and Bianca let him look. The snowman saw a bucket of sand overturned in the middle of the alley.
"Sand from the beach?" he asked.
"Yeah, go ahead."
"Didn't you tell me it was hot as lava, and it would melt me if I rolled over it?"
"That's in the summer, but it's winter now ... Go on!"
And the snowman jumped on the sand.
"Oh, look at that, it's sticky," he said excitedly.
"Mom always make's me wash it off."
The snowman began to make a small sand castle.
"Let's make some towers,"  said the snowman.
"You do it, I'll look for twigs for a gate," she said.
"Let's have a dry leaf at the entrance, we're going to raise it so strangers can't come in."
"Dig a trench while I'm looking for all that," she said.
Bianca and the snowman continued to play, adorning the sand castle, and at the end the snowman drew a few animals beside so it stood defended from bad children.
Some old timers living in the tenements with windows towards the inner courtyard sometimes watched Bianca play in the snow. They never noticed the snowman, the snowman didn't seem all that interesting so they paid no attention to him.

Days and weeks passed and after storms, Bianca came and dug out the snow man and the sand castle. For Christmas Bianca brought the snowman a plastic beard and for the New Year's Eve, the highest point of the sand castle, received a single sparkler.

The girl was laying on her back making snow angels when she saw the particularly black and clear sky dotted with lots of bright pearls. Some smaller, some bigger they all seemed to be making a necklace in the sky.
"See how the stars came out tonight?", asked the girl.
"Yes," said the snowman, "the lady of the sky is wearing them tonight."
"You think somebody's up there?"
"Yeah, she's taking care of everything up there, she wears her stars on serene nights, and spins around showing them off."
"How do you know that?"
"Well, she's been there since the earth began to have winters, and I think she is gonna be there long after we're all gone. I don't really get to see her so festively dressed, she is usually wearing thick clouds in the winter but now I see she dropped them behind and went out for a dance. Spring might be coming."
"That's not good, it's going to get warm," replied the girl worriedly.
"She's just tired of the cold and the snow. How long could you stay dressed up all in white? not to mention we have to think of the others, the trees and the bears are all sleeping, they have to wake up too.

The snowman was surrounded by snowdrops, and shortly thereafter the last snowfall of the winter fell. As the spring came, the snowman got dirty, and grass began to grow in the courtyard of the castle.
One day the snowman felt the end coming and decided to say goodbye to the little girl. He took one of the buttons on his chest and placed it in her hands.
"My time has come Bianca."
"No, you can't leave, I won't let you. I'll put your heart in the freezer and we'll see each other next year."
"Bianca, you promised me, you're a big girl now, you can't take care of me anymore, you have to grow up."
"I don't want to, why should I grow up?"
"Bianca I want you to listen, it'll be fine, you'll see, you'll grow up, you'll make friends and forget me..."
"How can I forget you, I don't want to."
"It's all right Bianca, that's how it has to be. It's gonna be fine, you'll see.
The snowman smiled warmly, and the girl burst into tears and fled home. The snowman cried out after her:
"Bye and be happy ... Bianca, if it's not too hot I'll see you again tomorrow." said the snowman considering the weather. 
The next day, Bianca found the snowman with a fallen eye and a missing hand.
"Where's your hand, who took it? Please talk to me, I'm sorry I left yesterday."
Bianca put the eye back, but the snowman was too far gone to respond. Bianca opened the soft snow around his heart. The blue diamond that had given life to the snowman was transparent in the daylight. 
She pulled it out, wiped it clean, and watched it for a long time, letting it melt in her hands. She held it until the feeling in her fingers started to fade.
"I don't want to leave you," she whispered.
Then she dug a hole in the middle of the sand castle with her numb fingers and buried the last shard of the snowman's heart.
"I'll play with you again, you'll see, I'll make snowmen with other kids, and we'll play together." 

Versiunea în română: Omul de zăpadă

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Jul 27, 2018

Guru - The titans

Shh ... can you feel your left eye weeping? it stings, doesn't it? I have to ask you to open it wider, help me out a little, that's it, a little more and I can take this light out of your eyes, you know what they say “light bestows the fruits of knowledge”. Tell me, do you believe in your god? 
Open up and the pain will pass, I promise. I know it stings and tomorrow it'll be swollen and red, but you're with me now, and we're gonna get over this together. It'll be fine, you'll see.
Stop fussing, I have a new rule for you, it's like a relaxation exercise. Are you ready? ... stop breathing. You should be able to refrain for at least a minute ... I take it you were unprepared. Shall we try again? So a new rule, you can only breathe when I allow it. Now breathe out all the air in your lungs, and we'll wait for a minute without breathing in, OK?
No matter how much you've exhaled, there's still some air left in your lungs, and it's not your fault, it's not like you disobeyed me, it's just the nature of your lungs. If I asked you to jump 6 feet in the air, could you do it? Probably not, and that's the nature of your legs, but you see, no one's stopping you from training. Ironically, in the opposite direction you'll get 6 feet under before you know it. You have to see your limits to overcome them, play hopscotch and then jump right out.
Are you grinding your teeth? Let me see. Smile, go on smile it's fine, I know you won't cheat, show me all your teeth. Do you know you have a cracked incisor? let me have a look at it. Don't breve in, that's right, just smile. You have to see a dentist, you must grind your teeth constantly. Why? worries and frustration? what does the universe want from its last talking mollusk. You're a ruminating cow, a broken windmill, if you keep going all you'll have in your mouth is chalk.
I'll give you a slap, are you ready? That's the rule, you can breathe in after I give you a smack on the mouth. It hasn't been a minute, we have to wait a little longer, you don't deserve it yet. You can inhale if you don't want to wait. I'm not here to smack you around, I will abstain. See this is an exercise for the both of us. If you give up that's your business, I'm not going to bother with you. I am not the one who can open up your chakras or that inner eye, only you can do that. You can be like a roly-poly toy and bounce back from all of this to enjoy your release.
Your teeth look really bad. It wouldn't be a problem if you had that mania where people chew on electrical cables, alas you suffer from something worst: fear and the yellow things hidden behind walls. These grind at you unseen. I want your sickness on the outside, honest, easy to understand and pleasant to explain.
How's the eye? I'll bring you a mirror, it's sort of funny to see someone crying with just one eye, you know the old saying: the rich widow cries with an eye and laughs with the other. Is it easier now? your tears washed most of the soap out. You know I was thinking, what's better regular soap or dish-washing soap? 
Heed my warning, the treatment hurts, but it's nothing compared to the alternative. Let me put some more. Salvation always comes from within, from the resources no one can take from you, from the air you can not exhale, from your tears and sweat, the lubricants of life. You have everything at your fingertips, all you have to do is stick your hand down your chest and take it. You have a full store at your disposal: first aisle adrenaline and lactic acids; second aisle gastric juices and gall blather stones; melanin and gray cells in the electrical aisle. You're young, the store is full, a nice cashier even lets you leave without paying.
Stop struggling, you won't understand anything if I have to tie you up to the chair. Stop touching your face. Who do you think you are, trying to take away the pain with your hands, it's useless. We've managed to pass that lousy minute, but you don't deserve the slap. Why do you want to scratch you're self so much? you would scratch until your skin would get red and you would scratch until you drew blood and scratch even more after that. Where will you end up if you bleed for such trivial things? What I'm offering you is much better.
It may itch, but that leads to meditation, the more you stay still, the more coagulated, you'll feel all kinds of itching, under your tits, beside your nose, somewhere on the top of your head. That itch is the sinner's gift, it tells you that you're on the right path. It will eventually go away, just like everything else in this world. Your forehead may itch, but I want to get rid of the itching on your brain.
A few words from a wise man? “Ignore the eye and it will ignore you“. Here's a little lemon flavored detergent, it will help you understand. You should pour it in yourself ... I can wait, there's no hurry.
We should really break off that tooth, regrettably I don't think you could handle it. The pain would take you out of the transformation. Some people told me they couldn't even hear me over the pain, it's a bit much for your first time. Do you want to try it, should I bring the pliers?
Yeah ... I forgot you can't talk, no air. It's okay we're doing these little steps together, you and I. You have to be patient with me too. If you don't give up on your self I promise I will get you out of here child of Iapetus.
Hold your breath, smile, open the eye, I know you want to open it as wide as possible, but more than the pain itself, the fear of pain is stopping you. Please for your sake, do it. 
You want that slap, are you ready? ... breathe. Why are you sneering? Does it hurt? you're going to get used to it, anyway, it' can't possibly hurt yet ... breathe. Your face is getting a bit red, but we have to relearn how to breathe. Can you imagine the person that expects every breath to be accompanied by pain, do you realize what you're becoming?
Inhale, hold it in, smile ... we wait and ... inhale. You tried to duck away, what was that? There's no way it can hurt you, I'm just putting on some makeup, lipstick on your cheeks and tyrian purple on your eyes. Smile ... inhale, I work my self to the bone and you still don't understand. Your god only exists in pain and suffering. That's the only time people look towards him, it's only natural that he would hate you.
Do you see his perversion? He made you weak so you would ask for help, he made you imperfect in his image, migraines in his image, organ failure in his image, death in his image, flesh on the stick in his image, brain dipped in batter in his image, your righteous soul in his image.
I'm almost envious, you can barely see, but I think your gaze has cleared up. I'm gonna bring the pliers, and because you flinched I won't help you anymore, you'll have to do it on your own. Don't breathe, I'll be right back.

Versiunea în română: Guru - Titanii

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Oct 31, 2017


A patch on his hand, that's how it started. A patch that grew steadily and was well adorned with small white purulent beads. These white globules appeared on the top of red mounds of meat erupting like biological mini-volcanoes. The situation could no longer be hidden by long sleeves, and far worst, the small hills of living flesh began to hurt. Only then in the 12th hour Holt decided to go see a doctor.

The dermatologist stood behind a tall metal door painted with flaky white enamel, and in the corner of the reception lobby a mold stain blossomed in the shape of a human head.
He got inside, and the first thing the doctor did was scratch his elbow. Holt looked at this as a bad sign and took a step back trying the door behind, but the knob was stuck. The doctor motioned him to approach.
-- How can I help you?
-- I have an itch on my hands, he lifted his palms up, showing the two red spots oozing down to his elbows.
-- The annoying part is they hurt.
Scratching his beard, the dermatologist lunged beneath the table and pulled out a couple of small-sized condoms that he rolled on his fingers.
-- Let's have a look.
The doctor approached and tested Holt's skin.
-- That's enough, said the doctor.
Then he smiled, lifted one eyebrow, scratched his armpits, and dropped the condoms into the trash.
-- You have a tadpole on your hands, that's how you got in trouble. You put your hand on the frog every day, you have to stop doing that sir.
-- On a frog?
-- Yes sir, on something infected. Go clean your house, take your day step by step and find the frog. It will pass, but you have to stop reinfecting yourself.

Holt picked up his clothes, his shirts, each and every sock and undershirt and washed them all at 90 ºC. He put on a pair of fresh gloves and began scrubbing the bathroom. "I reinfect myself every day", thought Holt, "every day". He looked at his toothbrush, he broke it in half and flushed it down the toilet. Slightly more calm he went to the kitchen, but he still couldn't escape the words "every day". He picked up his coffee cup and threw it against the wall, "This way no one is gonna take it from the trash".
He started recapping his day in a clean kitchen corner, thinking how he would break all his pens at work, how he would change his keyboard, how the mouse would make a jump out the window. Then, in a moment of divine enlightenment, he remembered: every day he went to the bathroom at work, day in day out he would wash his hands with the company soap, the one with the company logo. Every day, even several times a day, he put his hands on the frog in communion with the noxious people at work.
But if the soap was the cause then he couldn't be the only one, there had to be others, others who suffered. Holt decided to investigate. He would have to walk into the bathroom without touching the soap or the sink, he would open the door with his feet, and avoid door handles like all hell.
"But why am I the only one with a tadpole growing on me?" Holt thought, "Where are the other carriers, why doesn't anyone else open their little mouths?"

Holt got his post in the unisex bathroom, taking care not to exclude anyone. He decided to sit and smell all his colleagues farts, just so he could reach a satisfactory conclusion.
  "That fat bitch, she must be it, she would fuck anyone for a handful of fries", thought Holt. But Eillen took out a white cream soap from a rubber wallet, washed her hands and went out. Holt smiled politely while he was pretending to wash his hands for the tenth time. After the woman stepped out Holt pulled out his pruned fingers from beneath the jet of water and waited for the next dubious individual to make an appearance.
"Has to be this four eyes, this bloody bastard from IT, rubbing it in his pants in the server room, coming to wash it off on this soap", Holt thought almost shouting. He was planning to give Colby a bath in the toilet bowl. Colby pulled out a plastic sea shell from where he fished out a sliver of soap. He washed his hands, and left without saying anything. He closed the door with his foot and did all these without raising his gaze from the ground. "What a thing", Holt thought, "I could have sworn he ..."
The next one was Holt's boss. Alister left the stall and smiling at Holt zipped up his fly. "Is he the piece of shit I've been looking for? I may have to sign my resignation with a shovel on his face", contemplated Holt. Alister stopped in front of the mirror, pulled out an antibacterial spray and amply sprayed his hands, filling the toilet with the smell of sweet alcohol. With one foot out, Alister congratulated Holt for the good job he was doing and disappeared before Holt could answer.
Bursting into the bathroom entered his friend, nasty Olaf.
-- Hey buddy, oh man I had some chick this weekend, she almost broke me.
"Could it be him? Of course, I saw him blowing his nose in his hands just the other day", thought Holt.
-- She had about 40 pounds on me... well not 40 but at least 20, and lustful beyond belief.
Olaf boasted from within the stall, while a continuous jet of urine was sloshing the water in the toilet. He stepped out of the stall, passing indifferently by the sink and throwing a final:
-- That's life ...
"Ha ha, he didn't even look at the sink, who's left?" Not a single person had used the froggy soap since he was waiting.
An electric buzz began to massage Holt's leg. The janitor came in with a broom in his hand. He sunk his hands in the water and started sudsing his hands up to his elbows. He took a little water in the crook of his hands and poured it on his forehead and again at the back of his neck. Streams of sweat flowed down the man's clothes. Seeing the wretchedness flowing down from this man, Holt started steaming.
Undoubtedly he was the one, he had to be the pestilence, a man with too many layers of filth to feel a few tadpoles. Holt sneaked behind the old man taking his broom, and swung with all his strength for the janitor's head. He felt the bluntness of the wood failing in his hands, so he swung one more time with the satisfaction of braking the wood in half. The old man, now with a bloody face, threw himself toward Holt, but he stopped him with the rest of the broom. The old man grabbed it, and Holt turned him to the window where both of them were almost thrown out. Holt hit the old man behind his left foot, grabbed him by that leg, and lifted him up balancing him on the edge of the window. He launched a victorious howl and then threw him out. The old man, too immobile to catch on to anything, fell with a splat on the edge of the pavement.

Holt's phone continued to ring. He took a breath and put it to his ear.
-- Greetings, I'm calling you from the dermatology office, there's no infection sir. The lab results came back, it has to be an allergic reaction to something. Have you been fondling a cat, or maybe got a new shirt? I once had a patient covered head to toe in blisters from an allergic reaction to a bracelet. I was telling him "it's from the braided nonsense on your hand" but he kept saying no and no...

Versiunea în română: Săpun
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Sep 16, 2017

Wake up

My hands have long fingernails, too long for a man, too long for me. Clean and white I feel them wanting to grow. I see them growing, there's something weird about them.
I'm in a dream and can't get out. There's a girl on my couch, she sees me looking at her a little too carefully and asks me while raising one of her thin eyebrows, "What?". She's not real, she can't be real because I don't know her, only pieces of her seem familiar. A Frankenstein's beautiful monster I can not escape. She kisses me and now she looks at me with green eyes. I recognize them, they are the eyes of a girl that my former roommate when crazy over. Her lips taste of sour cherry's, that's from a girl I used to kiss in a cemetery when I was a kid.
-- You're not real, leave me alone.
She looks angry at me and gives me a slap.
I wake up.

I lay my hand on the place where my imagination gave me a slap, my face feels warm and stingy. What the hell, did I slap myself?
Next to me, a beautiful girl with dimples in her cheeks is giggling.
-- I can't believe you fell asleep on this music.
Wait this girl ... oh no it's fine I know her, I know her. I remember now, I'm at a wedding. My head is pulsing in the rhythm of the samba, my brain is sloshing around from left to right like a cup of water.
--I'm going to dance, she continued.
Opposite me, my brother's wife gives me a sign to go after the girl. I get up and go out, I need some air.
-- If you're sick you should go home.
My brother came after me.
-- Was it like this when you got married?
-- I'm not married.
I wake up.

Ohh God, if only this headache was only in my dreams. You drank last night and now you have to suffer idiot, suffer.
The digital clock next to the TV is broken I have to rely on the old dial clock in the kitchen. A couple of minutes past 7, I get dressed and start for work. I just walk out into the hallway and a neighbor sees me. I say "Morning", she just shakes her head. What? It's too late to go to work? this crazy old hag, damn her.
At the tram stop, a taxi driver waves me off so he can park his car in front of the tram. What's with all these madmen pushing me aside? I feel one of my fingers coming out of my shoe. 
I get to work and my boss puts yesterdays papers on my desk. "That's wrong," she says, tapping her finger here and there on the sheet in front of me. Ehh this old hen, doesn't she realize I didn't get much sleep last night, if she keeps going like this ... I have to. And then I see my nails, marine blue with waves drawn on them.
-- Hello, what are you doing? Day-dreaming?
-- My kitchen clock doesn't have batteries.
-- What?
-- It stopped working 2 years ago.
I wake up.

Oh brother, this is exactly what I hate about my dreams, how in the hell do you dream you go to work only to wake up and actually go to work. Next to me, my girlfriend has a sheet over her head, but her back is naked.
-- Get back to sleep, for once in your life sleep in on Sunday, she mumbles to me.
That's right, it's Sunday. I stretch back down on the bed. But I can't sleep anymore, I smack her ass and she jumps up like she got electrocuted.
--Let's do something, I say.
She drops the sheet down, kisses me lightly.
-- Okay, but first wash your teeth.
We come out on the balcony, my love lights up a cigarette, I also look for a pack. She shakes her head, she knows I don't have any cigarettes, I never do, she stretches out one of hers. I take in the first puff of smoke, is there anything smoother then that first morning smoke? A strange sense of shame embraces me, something is wrong. I look at her.
-- Didn't I quit smoking?
I wake up.

This time alone, of course alone, stupid ... ohh man, how dense can you be? Not to realize you are dreaming when you don't even have a girlfriend and there she was with her booty up in the air. And yet that cigarette woke me up, what a load of crap. 
Wet clothes are lying in the middle of the house, this infected air is giving me these dreams. I go to the bathroom and try to fill my hands with water, only the water flows through my fingers. I look at the mirror and the reflection in front of me gently shakes its head in disagreement.

Versiunea în română: Scoală

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