Sharp piercing needles prick the exposed skin as I carry myself through the land. Any piece of cloth will do to wrap and bind the body, protecting it from the pain of the mean wind. Appearance no longer matters. One foot is placed painfully down on to the hard path, then lifting the second ignoring the numbness. Smash. The hard concrete vibrates and shudders through my cold, icicle-like leg.

My fingertips tingle; they sting, despite the gloves, my protective layer against the spiteful wind. The cold begins to seep up my legs. Starting on the thighs, the cold has entered. It stings. Oh how the cold burns and makes the walking so much more unbearable. I want to enjoy the landscape, take in everything around me, but all I can think about is how my body hurts and where the pain is traveling to, how I desire to be out of the bitter wind.

Ignore it.

Moving my fingers helps to get the blood moving, they are starting to hurt less. Up the pace. One two three four. Keeping up that rhythm. One two three four. I must get into shelter, just out of the piercing wind would be so much easier. Concentrate on the walking, the pace, where the foot is placed and how far I can extend the leg.

But now the ice cold tingle is spreading to my inner thigh. And creeping down my shin. That cold is a sensation I am unfamiliar with, my body cannot recall it. But I can definitelyfeel each nerve being taken over by the ice.

It burns. The pain is getting more and more with each step.

But now I can see the destination. I can almost feel the soft warm fabric, imagine the delicate air gently soothing

the skin. How I crave that warmth.

Each step must be accurate, precise, on route. My breath has become loud and pronounced. And my scarf, bandaged around my face, has become damp with my breath. Even though my face is concealed from the cold air, my breath escapes the wool and is displayed in front of my face.