You used to cower at the smallest scent of trouble at your doors other side, and you'd run for the harbor to escape the land whenever storms headed ashore were soon to arive, not caring about what you'd leave behind or the people who wouldn't get a goodbye, suffering self-inflicted ruthless alienation every time fear found its way into the center of your mind, you'd kick and scream and swear you would die, just to put an end the terrors that only your eyes could find

You are doing better