My sorrow is a reflection of my fear, a sensation of frustration touching our bare skin. Its sensibility is like a river whose clarity must prevail in order to exist because if not, just like the river I will slowly die until the only thing left is the foul odor of rage in the once clear water. Yet, if I feel that I am already in the process of decomposing . . . Don't panic, don't fall into the same frustration that caught initially my spirit in sorrow. Just sit. Smell, although at first it might seem inevitable to judge it as sickening. Don't be fooled. In judging others, I judge myself. There is no disease. The river can purify itself instantly if at its source we stop throwing dead animals. Just sit. Sit as if all were patience, and calmly find the source of all that fear. Hear, don't get angry at what you sense: the aspect of myself that contaminates; instead teach yourself with inner awareness to be pure as the river that is no more fear, only patience, and love, everywhere you sit.