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In minutes, a deluge of rain turned the dust and gravel into a quagmire that sucked at the wanderer's weary legs as he fought to free himself. The force of the rain caused the man to find his way along the floor by leaning on the slope of the valley wall. Flash streams of cold water cascaded over the beggar's emaciated hands spraying even more water into his face. Closing his eyes, he pushed forward. His rags were saturated in seconds and his frail body soon after; the water carried the oppressive demands of responsibility. Wretchedly, the beggar continued on while the demands of religion, family, country, and self competed for prime consideration in his life.
Worse, the cries and wails of his abandoned ideas were not washed away but were mutated by the rain into another form of responsibility, which now grabbed at his legs as the rain drove demands deep into his soul. Still he crawled on and became use to the continuous rain, which began to slack its thirst for control. Climbing upslope to find clearer ground away for the ideas that seethed behind him and pulling at the tatters of his clothing, he saw a glint of light from out of the surrounding gloom. A fleeting rush of hope entered his thoughts but was soon squashed by mistrust and fear. He found holding on to his misery felt safer than chancing the unknown and uncontrollable. His world was bleak, traitorous, and unrelenting but it was familiar, which required less risk. The man sunk lower into himself and trudged on.
For days the rain beat on relentlessly as the earth cried out to the shambling figure. He became immune to the howls of responsibility and need, which echoed every muddy step, until he could no longer identify the source of his anguish. Suffering was the cloak he pulled tight over his beaten form. Finally, the rain abetted as he found himself coming out of the mountains onto a plain of dead brown grass.
The man stopped at the edge of the plain watching as the ground drank the wailing waters of responsibility before his eyes leaving his heart laden with the quilt that he felt honor bound to carry. Soon the land before him was as parched and barren as the mountains he was leaving behind. A hot, dry wind blew through the dead, brown grasses of the plain, dredging feelings of guilt and remorse from the solitary figure that traveled on silently. He knew no other way.

Where had he gone wrong?
Long ago, cried the land.
What had he done to deserve this torment?
Everything, rasped the grasses.
Who was to blame?
You, moaned the wind.
Was he the cause of the desolation he saw?
Yes, echoed the earth.

The dry crackling sound of dead grass filled him will remorse, yet he refused to stop moving. As night fell, a small hillock rose out of the plain. There were several large boulders at the peak giving the man some shelter from the hot wind that still loosed guilt from the surrounding grasslands. Wearily he climbed the small rise sinking down on the leeward side of the largest boulder only to release a sobbing gasp as contact with the stone filled him with a deep unending sadness.