I am afraid of living outside my head. I like my distance from people, I like keeping my ideas of them. I know it is not good, it is not healthy, it is not real. But I am afraid of living outside my head. There are days I feel like boldly stepping out of this cave of a mind to feel the sun on my face and to let my skin breathe. But many times I am afraid of exposing my flesh to the harsh winds that translate into that pit in my stomach that butterflies never fill. I am afraid of that cold rush beneath my skin that makes my nerves tremble and sends shockwaves to my head screaming THIS WAS A BAD IDEA. I collect observations that turn into theories that craft the way I look at people. But I think I fail to see. I want to fill that pit with more than just cold air. Fill it with butterflies for all I care but butterflies die and what's left is a pile of dead wings that can no longer fly. I am comfortable in my cave of a mind but a light inside here would be good. A flame to keep me warm would be good. But seeing how I only use these rocks to block sunlight out, I might never use them to make a spark, a flame. I think I know what I want. I want to leave the cave. This shell. This heavy but comfortable home. I want to let my skin breathe again. But what if it's cold?