Most travelers have their own view of themselves.
The problem is that introspection starts
And ends with its own rush of ebb and flow,
The day’s journey from upstream to downstream,
The rush inside one never can escape,
Sometime a placid brook, sometime much worse,
The rapids one can run, but not outrun,
Not even with a chance to swim ashore,
Given that the body of water inside the head
Doesn’t exist, has no shore, no mercy,
The current constant whether night or day
Is as alluring as insidious,
The mind awash with ever-racing thoughts.
Watch why this kind of water makes one weep.