I thought every step would be my last. The hunger, thirst, and weariness all combined into the greatest crisis I had ever experienced. Death had to be very close. The fog was so thick I could only see a few feet in front of me, and it seemed to perfectly fit my mental state. I was determined not to stop as long as I was still conscious, but I knew that could not be much longer.
I was trudging through a dense forest on a narrow path. My eyes burned. My clothes were frayed so badly they hardly gave any protection from the thorns and sharp limbs that stabbed at me continually. I had gone far beyond the point where I thought I could not go any further and each step was torture. Death became desirable. Even so, if I died I did not want it to be because I gave up. I knew that if I ever stopped I would not be able to start again, so I plodded on step by tortured step.