Ooooooo a challenge! I've never written for him, so this will be a bit odd. Allow me to set the scene:
Many days after his death, a notebook is found stuffed between the drawers of a desk in his Official residence. The notebook contains mostly news feed clippings of various events in the last thirty or so years, but what's more telling, is the single page at the end, the only one to bear any writing. It reads:
There are times, moments, flashes... Anyone who's pulled as many triggers as I have has them.
I don't know if anyone will ever read this, if it will even make sense to them or not, but I guess at the end, I want someone, ANYONE to know.
Men will call me a product of my time, a charismatic leader who shaped a burgeoning nation, but that isn't me. Funny thing is, in those pieces of clarity, I don't know who the real me is anymore. Am I still the little boy who lost his idealistic father? Or the assassin, who plotted to kill a king? Am I a leader of men and machines, a god upon the battlefield and the nightmare of millions? Or am I the man she wants me to be?
I don't know...I don't even recognize myself in the mirror anymore.
That's the real reason for the helmet, for the mask, for the shades, for tall of it... It's all the same in the end. It's all to hide the hole, that is me.
What? Not what you were expecting? Not the voice that shaped the colonies? Not the warrior, the leader, the man you thought I was?
Many days after his death, a notebook is found stuffed between the drawers of a desk in his Official residence. The notebook contains mostly news feed clippings of various events in the last thirty or so years, but what's more telling, is the single page at the end, the only one to bear any writing. It reads:
There are times, moments, flashes... Anyone who's pulled as many triggers as I have has them.
I don't know if anyone will ever read this, if it will even make sense to them or not, but I guess at the end, I want someone, ANYONE to know.
Men will call me a product of my time, a charismatic leader who shaped a burgeoning nation, but that isn't me. Funny thing is, in those pieces of clarity, I don't know who the real me is anymore. Am I still the little boy who lost his idealistic father? Or the assassin, who plotted to kill a king? Am I a leader of men and machines, a god upon the battlefield and the nightmare of millions? Or am I the man she wants me to be?
I don't know...I don't even recognize myself in the mirror anymore.
That's the real reason for the helmet, for the mask, for the shades, for tall of it... It's all the same in the end. It's all to hide the hole, that is me.
What? Not what you were expecting? Not the voice that shaped the colonies? Not the warrior, the leader, the man you thought I was?
No, I didn't think so either.
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