Calatoria Vindecarii

A story of flush. And a censorable story (by admins) about stink.
Let all stink. Wait. Be aware of all this stink. Pain. Fear. Beliefs. Me - not good enough, not smart enough, all the not's. And the fear of a war which is actually the fear of death. This smell. Or, maybe.
Choice.
Not my pain, not my fear, not my limiting beliefs. Flush. And then?
Just me, you, us.

Stop!
Azi cine va plânge? Copil, tânără, tânăr, femeie, bǎrbat, bunică, bunic? Eu? Noi? Stop. Sau doar ascultați-vǎ inimile, pulsul. Şi poate (ne) vom ierta.
Today who will cry? Child? Young girl, young man? woman, man, grandma, grandpa? Me? Us. Stop. Or just listen to your hearts, the pulse. And maybe we will forgive (ourselves).

Orice act de agresiune vine cu întrebarea. Când am fost victimā, salvator, agresor? Ce aleg azi? Toata compasiunea.
Any act of agression comes with the question. When I was a victim, a savior, an opressor? What do I chose today? All compasion.

Furia mea, tristețea mea mea, durerea mea... ar putea acoperi atât de mult. Dar. Cât dau azi? Din zåmbet. Cât? Azi? Tu?

Got that. And then thought. How about changing the end of the episode? Drama into Darma? Choice?