Diary Entry - Day 1 : What does it mean to be a penguin?

I was born into a cold winter night. After struggling for what seemed like an eon the shell of my egg finally cracked and I peered into the world outside. I still remember the first sight I ever saw, my father’s ball sack all shrivelled up by the Antarctic winds as he kept me warm between his legs. Averting my gaze, not wanting to make things too awkward during our first interaction I saw the beautiful night sky lit up in a thousand colours of the cold winter months. I heard my tribe sing the song of my people, praying for the fish to be plenty and the seals that hunted us to be few and far in between. Frankly I didn't care for any of it, I’d much rather go back inside my egg where it was warm and quiet and completely safe from unfortunate scrotal sightings. It was during that very first night that doubt first arose in my mind that maybe I was born a penguin but would much rather not be one; and this thought has haunted me my entire life.

I never liked the plain colour pattern of our coat. I used to hate the powder grey of my chick days but this black and white of my adult plumage is far worse, no flair whatsoever. I have heard tales of birds up north with feathers of every colour of the winter night and I envy them. So much of what I hear about them I envy. Warm weather where chicks don't need to rest between their father’s legs to keep warm, sweet nectar and ripe fruits to eat instead of plain old fish all the time and instead of swimming in scary waters birds up north can actually fly. Soar up into the sky where no seal can ever catch them; what a way to live.

Ah well, back to being a penguin I guess. Whatever that means.