It's cold.

It's been cold for as long as I can remember.

Wake up, cold. Brush my teeth, cold. Walk to work, cold. Suck up to my boss, cold. Get pressured into going drinking with my coworkers, cold. Walk home, cold. Fall asleep alone, cold. Repeat.

It can't be helped, though. I was born in the northern region to a family with too many kids already, and through 20-something years of life, I've come to know the different kinds of cold there is. There's the fresh morning cold which shows the first signs of winter, that pricks on your skin like tiny glass needles digging in to your pores. There's the bitter mid-winter night cold that bypasses four layers of clothing and blows into every nook and cranny of your soul, leaving you shuddering and wishing for shelter. There's the summer cold that sneaks up on you and knocks you out of commission for a week as your body struggles to cope with the virus.

And then there's the cold stare of your boss as he glances over your performance report during the bi-annual employee evaluation. There's the cold touch on your shoulder that the girl gives you as you leave your usual hostess bar, followed by a "Please come back again!" perfected to the point where you can't tell if it's sincere or not. And finally there's the worst cold, the coldness when you come back home from another strenuous day at work, to find a dark, empty apartment, unchanged since you finished moving in the furniture years ago, reminding you that nothing changed today, nothing will change tomorrow or the day after, or the day after that.

Money do nothing for me. The only way they could warm me would be to take them all out of my account and light them on fire, and even then it would only last for a fleeting moment. My peers seem to be doing fine on money alone, or at least that's what their facade tells me and the people around them. Maybe it's all an act, trying to tell themselves that all the time they've spent on education and getting a good job hasn't been wasted by going out and spending the money they earn on frivolous things and expensive dinners, but I'm not one to judge the intentions or motives of others. All I know is that it doesn't work for me. So the money I earn just accumulate, accumulate, and accumulate, with no real reason to.

My city is surrounded by mountains, which have made it a center for ski tourism and a place for hikers and travelers to meet, rest, and share stories. They flock to the bars and inns, rejoicing in the oddities and unfamiliar cuisine of a strange country, and bring a certain light to a city otherwise shrouded in white and grey. Their wind-bitten faces never seem cold. I believe they move around too much to get frozen in place.

I was once out to one of the peer pressure drinking events when I met one of these travelers. I'd been minding myself and thinking of excuses to leave early when one of my supervisors flagged down a lone traveler drinking by himself and invited him to our table. By chance, he ended up right in front of me. He stumbled through some mismatched greetings in our language, and I did the same in English. Once common ground had been established, he started telling stories about his travels to the best of his ability. Tales of hard work, weird persons, dangerous situations, helping strangers, and so on. As the liquor flowed, so did his words, and after a while I found myself listening intently, and despite not understanding half of the words that came out of his mouth, I understood the full meaning of what he was relaying to me; freedom of choice. Every story had sprung from him making a decision on his own, one that he hadn't been forced to choose through social circumstances or etiquette. It's the kind of freedom that's intoxicating to hear about, but impossible to live without severe repercussions. I would often reflect back upon the stories he told me that night, and after a while I realized that he never told me of his homeland or his family. I'm not even sure if he told me his name, but if he did I forgot it.

One thing that stuck with me more than his stories was the warmth he emitted. Watching his expression change as he got more engaged in relaying his tales was like sitting in front of a hearth, sucking in the radiating glow of the shuffling embers.

-

It's Saturday. Traditionally, I'd do nothing on a day like this. Sleep in, eat some processed food, watch TV, drink myself stupid, and pass out. But today doesn't feel like Saturday. In fact, it doesn't feel like any specific day at all. If I were to describe it, it's the kind of feeling you'd have as a child when you woke up in the morning. You knew it was day, you knew things had to be done, but what day and what things didn't matter as long as something happened. And this feeling isn't letting go of me. Get up, shower, breakfast, clothes on, out the door, and now what? My typical cycle has already been broken, but this has only increased the feeling of Not-Saturday.

I start strolling. Down the street I usually go when I'm heading to work. No, that doesn't cut it, turn left here. Then right here. Straight ahead. Then left again. Why isn't this feeling disappearing? I've never been in this neighbourhood before, I've gotten my dosage of new, what's going on?

Shopping? That's tried and done. No amount of designer furniture or brand clothing changed anything. Besides, this here is not a shopping street. Laundromat, flower shop, cafe, hiking store, foreign restaurant, public bath-

Hiking store?

-

"Cash or card?"

"Card, please."

On the counter in front of me is an assortment of items. Backpack, sleeping bag, tent, boots, gas stove, firelighters, cooking gear, and a compass.

"Would you like a bag for this?"

"Yes, please."

"Thank you very much, and happy travels!"

The clerk sends me off with a smile. Happy travels. The words linger and stir as I stand on the sidewalk. A feeling rises in my gut and takes hold of me. One step. Two steps. Many steps. Before I know it, I'm sprinting back towards my apartment, the gut feeling rising to every limb, every muscle, every cell membrane in my body. It feels as if I'm on fire.

My apartment is a mess. I've scrounged everything I need from every corner that they were hidden in. Passport, wallet, a few cans of food, spare clothing, and a dusty road map. Everything is packed in my new backpack standing upright in the middle of my room. The khaki-and-black patterns of the cloth and straps somehow manage to look more colorful than the paintings and carpets I've used to try and make my place homely. I pick it up by the strap with one hand and sling it over my shoulder, grabbing the other strap and securing it on my back. It doesn't feel heavy, despite there probably being a good fifteen kilos inside. I exit my place, toss my key in my landlord's mailbox, and take out my compass.

South. It's that way.

And so I started walking.