High ground and pain.

One of the most tragic things about the best parts of life is that they’re uncontrollable, like some kind of thunderstorm that strikes with ecstasy and grief where and when it will. And, as much as you want to, you cannot ride this storm. You can feel it approach and stand out in a field with your arms outstretched, but you cannot ride the lightning. It will strike you down, and it will make you struggle to find the moral of your broken state. And when you toil to your feet, charred and weary, you can either run for cover or look up as the light screams toward you.