I still need to keep writing now because I am afraid.
I am desperately searching for inner strength, while being scorned as cowardly, shameless and incompetent.
All words and no action.
I might be soft-hearted, dim-witted, a simpleton and a plain dumb fuck,
but
I was named after the most famous dictator of the strongest empire ever,
and
my firm was named after the genocidal founder of the larest empire ever.
The DNA of a power-hungry dictator is hidden deep in my gene,
despite the fact that I appear naive, timid, over-protected, and weak-willed.
Underneath the identities of
an untested idealist,
an insecure humanitarian,
a wordy pseudo-intellectual, and
a terribly-shallow thinker with low ceiling,
when the situation urgently demands, I must believe,
I will force out the elements of
a ruthless, morally-bereft alpha, and
an apathetically blood-thirsty tyrant,
deeply buried within,
to withstand the unbearable pain,
to defend the unprotected domain,
to annihilate the unbeatable foes, and
to heal the unmendable wounds of my loved one.
I will find that inner strength, while still being scorned as cowardly, shameless and incompetent, but without having to use words to stimulate actions.
By then, I will not need to cling onto Macchiavelli, Clausewith, Sun-Tsu, or Nietzsche.
By then, I will not need to juice up my confidence with images, sounds, and words,
thus have to risk bearing endless shame and embarrassment in public.
By then, I will not need to rely on make-believe delusions to keep my hope alive.
By then, I will not need to keep on writing,
but I will definitely keep on writing,
at last, no longer having any reasons to be afraid,
totally content of being a sub-par, awkward, and undisciplined writer.