Tired

The flood. It is unable to stop itself. Is it the path of least resistance? Is it the light at the end of the tunnel? The winds are blowing in this direction and all the debris and the living creatures are caught up in their power. What their experience is of the journey is only for them to know. What their experience is of the landing is theirs and their only, all but for one exception. The destination has seen many arrivals. Arrivals with their idiosyncrasies, personalities, colors, shapes, speeches, dances, and numerous other qualities. They land, usually hard, usually blinded, usually startled, usually surprised. The reactions may be different and the end result is nearly always the same: the once pristine landscape is torn at its soft edges. It shudders and contracts and slowly retreats, for the newcomers know not what they are doing. And the grandeur of the journey's end is simply overwhelmed-the imperceptible bleeding made possible by the travelers' incognizant rawness.