There have been many moments in my life where I have felt fear, for I am afraid so very much of the time. The fear of losing a friend, the fear of facing an adversary, the fear of screwing up so completely that things cannot be fixed. They come, they consume me as I face them, but eventually they are resolved. Eventually they pass to become sorrow or triumph, regret or determination. But there is one fear that I keep. There is one fear so visceral in its intensity that it keeps me.

I have bound it in iron will. I have buried it deep in labyrinths of misdirection. I have surrounded it with polished walls of pride, and I have encased it all in armour of nonchalance and pantomime. Yet still it keeps me. Still it rages and boils in its cage. Still it wakes me from slumber, seizing my core so tightly that it pounds a cacophony of dread against my chest. It trails claws of terror along my spine in rivulets of purest panic, and leaves me choking on the air around me, barren and defeated.

I have not faced it fully in so long. I have stripped away the armour and peeked over the walls and it sends me scurrying back out with my heart cradled in my hands in mere moments. Could I face it? Could I break it open into the full light of day and challenge it? Could I stand eye to eye, toe to toe, and have the faith that I need in order to banish it?

Can I put the fate of all my battles, all my darkness, in the trust of anyone else.