The pressure of expectations of the selves over the years leaves a bitter emotion. I want to stop writing. I feel cold. Palpitations. The fingers want to retract into balled fists. The instinct is to curl into fetal position. The voice lets out a primal moan of agony, of what the self has been through yet knows it hasn't gone through utter despair so the moan fades into a whimper. The eyes want to close, the eyelids squint, the eyebrows scrunches, the forehead raised. Irregular breathing. The back of the hand smashes into the wall behind him. The fingers loosen. Silent screaming. The soul cries out.