I sometimes still believe I am capable of writing the kind of literature that moves hearts, bends minds, and twists ideologies beyond the bounds of common comprehension.
But I remind myself—again and again—of the humility required for a truly meaningful life. Of the privacy one must guard to avoid the chaos that follows unnecessary exposure. Of the discipline to act with intention, not for selfish gain, but for something deeper, quieter, and more lasting.
I think of Givers and Takers—a terrible alchemy of personalities that fuels systemic slavery. A world where the individual struggles to define not just where they stand, but what they stand for. We like to believe we’re free, but we live in a hierarchy of unseen dependencies, dictated by the balance between who offers and who consumes.
So I return to humility. To gratitude. To the silent acknowledgment of blessings I did not earn, but which nevertheless arrived.
Sometimes, I still flex.
Not out of arrogance. But as a reminder.
A reminder that my humility is not weakness. That silence is not surrender. That retreat is not defeat.
In a world obsessed with noise and recognition, there is power in being underestimated. In being unknown. To be misread is the greatest tactical advantage.
It is, in the Machiavellian sense, the ultimate position.
The ability to remain unseen, yet capable of force beyond even modern warfare. To bend generations not through weapons, but through words, the invisible will—subtle, precise, and absolute.