I will admit to being absolutely terrified. Anxiety gnaws at me frequently and I feel the responsibility for the survival of not only my own beautiful family but of our entire race and its genetic potentiality. To be completely candid, I do not love the vast glut of our people. In fact I will admit to a deep sense of animosity and revulsion that they have allowed themselves to become so trampled beneath the twin dogmas of democracy and suicidal racial egalitarianism that there now appears to be little hope of resurgence. I resent them for presenting me with a terrible legacy, a burden that continually distracts my waking thoughts and disturbs my dreams. I look to South Africa and remember the events all over the African continent–the butcher and torment of White people–and my heart aches.
I am only a man. I was not tutored from birth in the arts of war like a Spartan and neither have I been groomed by prodigious mentors for great deeds or ponderings. As I joking remind a good comrade, we are very much akin to another unlikely hero, one Farmer Giles of Ham, the protagonist from a short story by the literary genius, J. R. R. Tolkien. The tale is not Plato or Nietzsche, Oliver or Pound but it is by no means less profound. We have been forced into this situation by the inaction of concessive generations and the haphazard nature of sheer circumstance, and now everything is dependent entirely upon us. That should be enough to force a bead of sweat from even the most hardened brow.
So can we turn thoughts and words into accomplishments? Are we able to put aside differences and invigorate our mighty cause? Are we going to condemn our offspring to a future of frustration, impotence, and death? What else is more important than our very existence as a people? For many, personal gain eclipses this holy endeavour while for others, their swollen egos or peculiar personalities represent an insurmountable impediment. This leads me to believe that we are a hopeless, worthless mess; a shameful iteration of something once magnificent. On the whole we undoubtedly are, but this is not reason enough to finally denounce our race or our cause. The present is transient and unpredictable and it is necessary to endure it in order for the future to manifest itself.
Fortunately for our progeny we do exist and survival is enough. It is our honour and our duty to carry the torch of our race, whose brilliance and majesty rests dormant within our DNA. Sometimes it is not sufficient to hope, for reality can crush this sentimental compulsion with the force of planets. However, we must continue and if no one will follow me then I will go alone for I have too much to lose to allow the throw of the dice to decide the fate of my angels and my people. I cannot rely on you or the ‘movement’ or anyone else, what I have is more important than all the respective life on this planet. I will fight for it until the bitter end and no matter the cost. If I am to represent a lone warrior who welters knee-deep through the fields of blood then so be it; I will not permit diversion, irrelevance, or even fear to dissuade me. Let the world burn if that is its fate, but from the charred ruins of what greater men than I have built, I at least will rise, I have no other choice.
Year still after year flows
Down the Seven Rivers;
Cloud passes, sunlight glows,
Reed and willow quivers
As morn and eve, but never more
Westward ships have waded
In mortal waters as before,
And their song has faded.
Final stanza of The Last Ship by Tolkien.