because I write for me, not for you.

That's the trouble with letting go. It's difficult.
Among the mountains, between the valleys, underneath the caverns that my mind burrows into at night-interspersed, intertwined, inseparable from my surroundings lies the fear and the hesitation; hides the mourning.
I try to understand, to comprehend. I'm sitting here listless. Frustrated by the lack of feeling. Lack of impulse. Lack of movement. I try again and again, and still I can't understand you. I can't understand your ways. The jumping is the trouble. Sometimes I wish someone would push me.