A Harsh Trek
A metaphorical piece for how I've been feeling as of late.
The air was crisp yet painfully cold. It felt like sharpened pins upon her bare face, each footstep felt like it like it would be the last her legs could take, yet still the goat had to keep climbing. Her fur was too short for such a trek, yet she had run out of options. She had wasted her time, fearful of the journey, putting it off instead of preparing because she didn't want to grow up. So, she climbed without any aid. A single slip up would be her death, yet supposedly, her kind could make such journeys without any struggle. Her mother made the journey burdened by twice the load, at a younger age, yet here she was, struggling. Just when she thought she reached the peak, she saw just another bridge to cross. The mountain range was torture, and her bridge barely held on. If she crossed it, she wasn't sure if she could return home. Galia took a deep breath, she knew better than to stop moving, if she stopped now, her body wouldn't let her get back up. If she fell, she feared her body, and her prison of a mind, would latch onto her forever, and the cold of the night would claim her far before any wolf could. She'd be nothing but a disappointment, a failure, and she feared that just barely enough to keep moving. One hoof in front of the other, she kept moving. The wooden planks creaked, and groaned in agony under her own weight, the entire bridge's ropes were fraying despite being newly constructed, a shoddy job from a shoddy, lazy goat. Still, it would have to do, it had to withstand. The winds grew tumultuous, yet still onward the mountain goat pressed. She was raised on flat lands, a waste of her natural talent, and for it, she was a waste of potential, but she could not dare to think of such a thing. Each step took longer than the last, yet still onward she pressed, until the ropes holding together her sad excuse of a bridge, snapped.
Downward she would plummet, yet still she could not give in. She could not die like this, and so she clung to what little of her bridge remained, slamming against the cliffside, and coughing up blood. Still she would not give in, and began to climb the crumbling remains, using the cliff space for whatever hoof-holds she could find, eyes not worked at that fine tuned talent, yet still meant for such goals. Agonizing minute after minute, she crawled her way to the top of, of this small section, of this small gap, though she stumbled onto the ground as she climbed up. Her body was laying there, and she realized too late she was laying down. Desperately she tried to stand up, but her legs dared not march forward. Her body demanded rest, yet if she rested here she would not awaken, she new this. Every moment lost, was a moment more she would lose of everything. A moment she could never get back, as she needed to succeed.