The Irate Lumberjack

Criticize me for this self-indulgent introspective... It's all there is these days when my pen's poison runs dry and progress requires my hands and mind to move. Previous forecasts are appearing much more overcast than anticipated, but we forage on; Twigs and mosses crunching at our feet. This mission is colder and the terrain much more difficult than we'd prefer, but I refuse to turn back. If I don't meet you at the other side, I twitch under the strain we've endured these past weeks, while the sun chose to hide beneath its hollow grey sheath. Body aches; Mind numbs; Mood firmly soured. This firm belief remains: in this case, quitting is for the weak. You all can walk away; But I won't fail this time.