The Lone Pilgrim

I found myself crying for a penguin.

That lone pilgrim from years ago. I watched him leave. Saw him turn his back on the noisy, living colony by the sea and just walk inland, toward the mountains. He didn’t stop. He walked until everything warm was gone, until there was only stone and silence and cold. He made the frozen nowhere his final place. A "nest" not to wake up from, but to finally be still.

I understand that quiet pilgrimage. That deep, turning inward. It’s not a dramatic scream, but a whisper that becomes your whole world. You just start walking away from the chatter, the hugs, the bright, sparkling sea of people. You leave your own colony behind. It becomes too much, or not enough. So you go. The heart just.. closes its doors.

The colony is still there. A distant tide of friends, family, plans moving forward. And I am here, in my own high altitude. Still breathing, a heart still beating in the quiet frost. But sometimes, being physically alive is just a different kind of solitude. You are a living monument to a feeling that has no name.

They said that penguin was sick, or confused. Maybe. Or maybe he was just unbearably tired. I don’t know. I only know the path is familiar. The pulling away. The silent mountains. My feet, for now, have stopped walking. There’s a strange peace in this frozen ground. It’s not a nest among life, but it’s a pause. A long, long pause where you still breathe, still exist, yet only listen to the wind, waiting for a thaw you can’t yet imagine.