Beyond the Last Footstep

There was once a figure.

Not a name. Not a face. Just motion. Breath.

It walked — far beyond the world known to most. Past the noise. Past the neon. Past the voices repeating the same dreams.

And into the cold.

The mountains didn’t welcome. They dared. Dared the flesh to freeze. Dared the mind to fracture.

And so it did.

Time became irrelevant. Seconds stretched like tendons pulled too tight. The past didn’t follow. The future didn’t care. Only the present remained — violent, still, absolute.

 

 

 

 

In that wilderness, something changed.

The cold began to speak.

The clouds moved like slow beasts. The wind whispered in forgotten tongues.

Civilization?

A memory soaked in static. A loop of emotionless faces chasing empty things. Rushing nowhere. Smiling for no one.

Out here, there were no smiles. Only teeth.

No love. Only hunger.

No comfort. Only truth.

The mountains didn’t lie.

They screamed in silence.

Every night, the moon poured silver over the white peaks, and the wanderer sat — watching shadows crawl, bones stiff in the hush.

There was no “why” anymore.

Only what’s next?

The soul, once caged by comfort, now ran barefoot through snow.

And when the storm came — sharp, fast, from the north — it did not hide.

It stood.

Let the cold take what it must. Let the rest burn.

This wasn’t escape.

This was transformation.

The world will never understand.

But the wind does.

And that’s enough.

 

 

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Written on   March 25, 023