We, fickle things, us humans.
Ever needing to think: we need not become dependant. In an effort to soothe our hearts, the same hearts, that just wanted to have people to rely on. So mighty in that fort of yours; high walls of barren, empty halls. Numbness of the cold, not from some snow, but by being alone in the misery of your self-built comfort.
Oh we, ironic things, us humans.