Road March

The days grow longer. The excitement pales as the mucus grows longer. I cannot imagine myself saying this, but I am slightly homesick. Would I ever grow accustomed to the alien tongue that casts me as the outsider? Would I ever overcome the puzzlement and the irritation that the language barrier presents? My speech betrays me although my skin resembles theirs. My face mirrors the exhaustion, its blotches of angry redness in contrast to their pasty whiteness, and but a nasty reminder to the days passed in coldness and tiredness. My money runs out as fast as my energy. My roommate finally succumbs to the exhaustion although he is hesitant to admit the weariness. The road march continues, as I lower my head to the blistering cold wind howling in my muffled ears. Where everyone suffers, I am the god of suffering and shall render its administration in due order. No one is spared. The road march continues.