Fear’s Dominion and Liberty’s Fragility: Reconciling Virtù, Necessity, and Freedom in Machiavelli’s
S Tominaga
@CsTominaga
·
18 feb.
I. Introduction
Niccolò Machiavelli’s political thought endures as both a cornerstone of realist theory and a perennial source of controversy, his writings oscillating between the ruthless cunning of The Prince and the republican enthusiasm of Discourses on Livy, prompting accusations of incoherence. The tension lies most acutely in his treatment of virtù, fear, and liberty—a constellation of ideas that seems, at first glance, riddled with contradiction. Machiavelli lauds virtù, an agile, forceful capacity to master fortuna, as the highest political quality. Yet this celebration of political skill coexists with his profoundly pessimistic view of human nature: men are self-serving, deceitful, and obedient only when shackled by necessity.[1] This anthropology leads him to insist that fear—particularly the fear of violent reprisal—is the most reliable foundation of order.[2] At the same time, he elevates liberty (libertà) as the supreme good of the republic, depicting Rome’s plebeians as zealous defenders of freedom against the encroaching ambitions of the nobility.[3] These juxtapositions give rise to a fundamental question: Is Machiavelli guilty of theoretical disarray, advocating liberty while anchoring order in fear? Or do these seemingly disparate elements coalesce into a coherent system?
The charge of inconsistency, most forcefully advanced by liberal and neo-republican theorists such as Quentin Skinner and Hannah Arendt, asserts that fear undermines liberty by fostering submission and eroding civic virtue.[4] Liberty, in this view, consists in the absence of arbitrary power—non-domination—and any political structure predicated upon fear risks devolving into servility.[5] Arendt, reflecting on twentieth-century totalitarianism, argues that fear’s corrosive effect on civic engagement precludes the vibrant public sphere upon which republican liberty rests.[6] Machiavelli’s invocation of fear, it is claimed, is therefore not a necessary guardian of freedom but its mortal enemy.
Yet this liberal critique misapprehends the essence of Machiavelli’s realism. When read not through the lens of moral idealism but through the harsh prism of necessity, Machiavelli’s thought reveals itself as rigorously coherent. Fear, far from being antithetical to liberty, emerges as its precondition in a world governed by power struggles. Machiavelli’s liberty is not the autonomy of the atomised individual but security from domination—the preservation of one’s life and possessions in a landscape where power is omnipresent.[7] This freedom can only endure if power is contested and constrained, and fear—reciprocally distributed across social classes—becomes the engine of that equilibrium. The nobles fear the plebs, the plebs fear the nobles, and both fear the magistrates and the law. It is in this structured contestation that liberty is born, not from the absence of power but from its mutual restraint.
John Mearsheimer’s offensive realism provides a modern parallel to this Machiavellian logic. In the international realm, anarchy and the absence of a Leviathan compel states to seek power as the sole guarantee of survival; cooperation is fleeting, and security lies in deterrence.[8] Similarly, Machiavelli’s republic thrives not on trust but on the calibrated friction between competing fears, producing stability through balance rather than harmony. Hans Morgenthau’s classical realism reinforces this view, positing that power, not morality, is the central currency of politics; aspirations to transcend this reality are naïve and dangerous.[9] Morton Kaplan’s systems theory further complements this perspective, suggesting that stability arises not from benevolence but from structural constraints that prevent any single actor from achieving hegemony.[10] Ayn Rand’s rational egoism, though often dismissed as antithetical to
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S Tominaga
@CsTominaga
·
18 feb.
I. Introduction
Niccolò Machiavelli’s political thought endures as both a cornerstone of realist theory and a perennial source of controversy, his writings oscillating between the ruthless cunning of The Prince and the republican enthusiasm of Discourses on Livy, prompting accusations of incoherence. The tension lies most acutely in his treatment of virtù, fear, and liberty—a constellation of ideas that seems, at first glance, riddled with contradiction. Machiavelli lauds virtù, an agile, forceful capacity to master fortuna, as the highest political quality. Yet this celebration of political skill coexists with his profoundly pessimistic view of human nature: men are self-serving, deceitful, and obedient only when shackled by necessity.[1] This anthropology leads him to insist that fear—particularly the fear of violent reprisal—is the most reliable foundation of order.[2] At the same time, he elevates liberty (libertà) as the supreme good of the republic, depicting Rome’s plebeians as zealous defenders of freedom against the encroaching ambitions of the nobility.[3] These juxtapositions give rise to a fundamental question: Is Machiavelli guilty of theoretical disarray, advocating liberty while anchoring order in fear? Or do these seemingly disparate elements coalesce into a coherent system?
The charge of inconsistency, most forcefully advanced by liberal and neo-republican theorists such as Quentin Skinner and Hannah Arendt, asserts that fear undermines liberty by fostering submission and eroding civic virtue.[4] Liberty, in this view, consists in the absence of arbitrary power—non-domination—and any political structure predicated upon fear risks devolving into servility.[5] Arendt, reflecting on twentieth-century totalitarianism, argues that fear’s corrosive effect on civic engagement precludes the vibrant public sphere upon which republican liberty rests.[6] Machiavelli’s invocation of fear, it is claimed, is therefore not a necessary guardian of freedom but its mortal enemy.
Yet this liberal critique misapprehends the essence of Machiavelli’s realism. When read not through the lens of moral idealism but through the harsh prism of necessity, Machiavelli’s thought reveals itself as rigorously coherent. Fear, far from being antithetical to liberty, emerges as its precondition in a world governed by power struggles. Machiavelli’s liberty is not the autonomy of the atomised individual but security from domination—the preservation of one’s life and possessions in a landscape where power is omnipresent.[7] This freedom can only endure if power is contested and constrained, and fear—reciprocally distributed across social classes—becomes the engine of that equilibrium. The nobles fear the plebs, the plebs fear the nobles, and both fear the magistrates and the law. It is in this structured contestation that liberty is born, not from the absence of power but from its mutual restraint.
John Mearsheimer’s offensive realism provides a modern parallel to this Machiavellian logic. In the international realm, anarchy and the absence of a Leviathan compel states to seek power as the sole guarantee of survival; cooperation is fleeting, and security lies in deterrence.[8] Similarly, Machiavelli’s republic thrives not on trust but on the calibrated friction between competing fears, producing stability through balance rather than harmony. Hans Morgenthau’s classical realism reinforces this view, positing that power, not morality, is the central currency of politics; aspirations to transcend this reality are naïve and dangerous.[9] Morton Kaplan’s systems theory further complements this perspective, suggesting that stability arises not from benevolence but from structural constraints that prevent any single actor from achieving hegemony.[10] Ayn Rand’s rational egoism, though often dismissed as antithetical to
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Machiavelli, aligns on this point: freedom depends not on the absence of coercion but on the rational defence of individual sovereignty against potential subjugation.[11]
This essay contends that Machiavelli’s political thought achieves coherence when interpreted through the realist logic of necessity. Virtù represents the capacity—possessed by both rulers and citizens—to harness fear as a means of stabilising the political order. Fear, institutionalised through the equilibrium of competing social forces, becomes the safeguard of liberty. Liberty, in turn, is not the utopian absence of power but the hard-won security against domination. The appearance of contradiction dissipates when Machiavelli is understood as offering a tragic yet clear-eyed account of politics, in which freedom is not the antithesis of power but its tempered by-product. This reading situates Machiavelli not as a proto-liberal or a covert republican idealist but as the progenitor of a distinctively realist republicanism, one that views liberty as the offspring of conflict rather than consensus.
This argument will unfold in three parts. The first will examine the relationship between virtùand Machiavelli’s dark view of human nature, arguing that virtù is the adaptive skill required to navigate a political environment shaped by self-interest and deception. The second will explore Machiavelli’s conception of fear as a stabilising force, demonstrating that fear, when properly institutionalised, underpins the negative liberty he values. The third will address the charge of incoherence, engaging directly with Skinner’s and Arendt’s critiques, and asserting that Machiavelli’s realism anticipates the structural logic of modern balance-of-power theory. Ultimately, this analysis will reveal Machiavelli as a thinker whose unity lies not in moral consistency but in his relentless subordination of all political goods to the exigencies of order in a world ruled by power.
II. Virtù and Human Nature: Harnessing the Savage Self
Niccolò Machiavelli’s conception of virtù defies conventional moralistic interpretations, evading the classical association with virtue as moral righteousness and as an alternative signifies a political disposition marked by adaptability, strength, and shrewdness—a quality essential for navigating the perilous uncertainties of fortuna.[12] This is the calibre of excellence Machiavelli demands from rulers, but equally, it becomes the necessary attribute of citizens in a republic where freedom is not bestowed as a natural right but wrestled from the perpetual threat of domination. The earnestness with which Machiavelli elevates virtù emerges from his uncompromising anthropology: men, he asserts repeatedly in The Prince, are “ungrateful, fickle, false, cowardly, and covetous,” motivated by self-interest and prone to treachery the moment it becomes expedient.[13] This bleak view of human nature underpins his rejection of the idealist assumption that politics can be governed by trust, cooperation, or appeals to higher moral ideals. As a substitute, it demands that the statesman—and, in a republic, the citizen—be ever vigilant, capable of mastering necessity through calculated force and deception.
This foundational pessimism finds resonance in John Mearsheimer’s offensive realism, which posits that states, much like Machiavelli’s individuals, operate in an anarchic international system where survival hinges upon power accumulation and mistrust is the only rational stance.[14] Just as no state can afford complacency in the pursuit of security, so too, in Machiavelli’s republic, neither ruler nor citizen can rest upon the presumption of goodwill. Power, for both, is the currency of survival. This perception reveals that virtùis not purely a princely tool but a republican necessity. While the ruler employs virtù to consolidate and maintain power, the citizens of a free state must embody virtù to guard against the ever-looming spectre of aristocratic domination or princely usurpation.
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This essay contends that Machiavelli’s political thought achieves coherence when interpreted through the realist logic of necessity. Virtù represents the capacity—possessed by both rulers and citizens—to harness fear as a means of stabilising the political order. Fear, institutionalised through the equilibrium of competing social forces, becomes the safeguard of liberty. Liberty, in turn, is not the utopian absence of power but the hard-won security against domination. The appearance of contradiction dissipates when Machiavelli is understood as offering a tragic yet clear-eyed account of politics, in which freedom is not the antithesis of power but its tempered by-product. This reading situates Machiavelli not as a proto-liberal or a covert republican idealist but as the progenitor of a distinctively realist republicanism, one that views liberty as the offspring of conflict rather than consensus.
This argument will unfold in three parts. The first will examine the relationship between virtùand Machiavelli’s dark view of human nature, arguing that virtù is the adaptive skill required to navigate a political environment shaped by self-interest and deception. The second will explore Machiavelli’s conception of fear as a stabilising force, demonstrating that fear, when properly institutionalised, underpins the negative liberty he values. The third will address the charge of incoherence, engaging directly with Skinner’s and Arendt’s critiques, and asserting that Machiavelli’s realism anticipates the structural logic of modern balance-of-power theory. Ultimately, this analysis will reveal Machiavelli as a thinker whose unity lies not in moral consistency but in his relentless subordination of all political goods to the exigencies of order in a world ruled by power.
II. Virtù and Human Nature: Harnessing the Savage Self
Niccolò Machiavelli’s conception of virtù defies conventional moralistic interpretations, evading the classical association with virtue as moral righteousness and as an alternative signifies a political disposition marked by adaptability, strength, and shrewdness—a quality essential for navigating the perilous uncertainties of fortuna.[12] This is the calibre of excellence Machiavelli demands from rulers, but equally, it becomes the necessary attribute of citizens in a republic where freedom is not bestowed as a natural right but wrestled from the perpetual threat of domination. The earnestness with which Machiavelli elevates virtù emerges from his uncompromising anthropology: men, he asserts repeatedly in The Prince, are “ungrateful, fickle, false, cowardly, and covetous,” motivated by self-interest and prone to treachery the moment it becomes expedient.[13] This bleak view of human nature underpins his rejection of the idealist assumption that politics can be governed by trust, cooperation, or appeals to higher moral ideals. As a substitute, it demands that the statesman—and, in a republic, the citizen—be ever vigilant, capable of mastering necessity through calculated force and deception.
This foundational pessimism finds resonance in John Mearsheimer’s offensive realism, which posits that states, much like Machiavelli’s individuals, operate in an anarchic international system where survival hinges upon power accumulation and mistrust is the only rational stance.[14] Just as no state can afford complacency in the pursuit of security, so too, in Machiavelli’s republic, neither ruler nor citizen can rest upon the presumption of goodwill. Power, for both, is the currency of survival. This perception reveals that virtùis not purely a princely tool but a republican necessity. While the ruler employs virtù to consolidate and maintain power, the citizens of a free state must embody virtù to guard against the ever-looming spectre of aristocratic domination or princely usurpation.
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This dual application becomes particularly clear in Machiavelli’s Discourses on Livy, where the plebeians’ insistence on legal protections and tribunes is not cast as the triumph of idealism but as the exercise of virtù—the plebs, aware of the nobles’ natural ambition, leveraged their fear of oppression into institutional safeguards.[15]
This republican expression of virtù complicates the oft-simplified image of Machiavelli as an advocate of princely absolutism. The plebeians, through their mobilisation and confrontation with patrician power, display precisely the kind of adaptive strength Machiavelli prizes in rulers. Their virtù lies in their capacity to recognise the reality of elite greed and to act decisively to constrain it. This echoes Hans Morgenthau’s observation that political power is not static but relational—an ongoing contest that requires both insight and resolve to sustain.[16] The Roman Republic exemplifies this contest: the nobles, seeking unchecked dominance, were resisted by the plebeians, whose virtù forced concessions, thereby preserving their liberty. The conflict was not an aberration but the very condition of freedom, with each class’s fear of the other sustaining the political equilibrium.
This understanding of virtùalso finds an unlikely echo in Ayn Rand’s rational egoism, though divested of Machiavelli’s readiness for deception. Rand’s vision of the rational individual, fiercely protective of their sovereignty, aligns with Machiavelli’s plebeian class, whose vigilance against aristocratic overreach stems not from collective altruism but from the recognition that their liberty is always vulnerable to power.[17] Here, virtùbecomes a civic attribute—the refusal to submit, the capacity to organise against domination, and the fortitude to assert one’s place within the political order.
However, this interpretation is not without its critics. Quentin Skinner, in representing the neo-Roman republican tradition, maintains that Machiavelli’s reliance on virtùrisks reducing politics to a contest of domination, neglecting the possibility of non-domination as the foundation of liberty.[18] Skinner argues that Machiavelli’s model, preoccupied with power struggles, undervalues the institutional guarantees that prevent arbitrary interference. The danger, in Skinner’s view, is that virtù—particularly when defined as force and deception—perpetuates the very insecurity that liberty seeks to overcome. This objection, however, misapprehends Machiavelli’s realism. Far from being opposed to institutional protections, Machiavelli’s entire analysis of Rome rests on the recognition that institutions are not self-sustaining; they require citizens imbued with virtù—ready to resist, to protest, to challenge overreach—lest the forms of liberty become hollow.
Morton Kaplan’s systems theory reinforces Machiavelli’s insight: stability arises not from the mere existence of institutions but from the pressure exerted by competing forces.[19] Without virtù, institutions ossify or become instruments of elite control. The Roman plebs’ strength lay not in legal formalism but in their willingness to exploit the fear of revolt as leverage against the aristocracy. Machiavelli’s model thus reveals liberty as a product of conflict, not consensus; virtù is the animating force that prevents institutional decay and elite capture.
Ultimately, Machiavelli’s vision of virtù—whether wielded by prince or plebeian—rests on a deductive foundation: if human nature is inherently self-interested and power-seeking, then only through the constant assertion of countervailing power can liberty endure. This virtù is not mere cunning but the political skill to navigate and shape necessity. The failure to grasp this necessity—to cling to moral platitudes or assume the benevolence of others—invites subjugation. Machiavelli’s realism, in this respect, anticipates Mearsheimer’s assertion that in politics, survival demands vigilance; the absence of power invites its abuse.[20]
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This republican expression of virtù complicates the oft-simplified image of Machiavelli as an advocate of princely absolutism. The plebeians, through their mobilisation and confrontation with patrician power, display precisely the kind of adaptive strength Machiavelli prizes in rulers. Their virtù lies in their capacity to recognise the reality of elite greed and to act decisively to constrain it. This echoes Hans Morgenthau’s observation that political power is not static but relational—an ongoing contest that requires both insight and resolve to sustain.[16] The Roman Republic exemplifies this contest: the nobles, seeking unchecked dominance, were resisted by the plebeians, whose virtù forced concessions, thereby preserving their liberty. The conflict was not an aberration but the very condition of freedom, with each class’s fear of the other sustaining the political equilibrium.
This understanding of virtùalso finds an unlikely echo in Ayn Rand’s rational egoism, though divested of Machiavelli’s readiness for deception. Rand’s vision of the rational individual, fiercely protective of their sovereignty, aligns with Machiavelli’s plebeian class, whose vigilance against aristocratic overreach stems not from collective altruism but from the recognition that their liberty is always vulnerable to power.[17] Here, virtùbecomes a civic attribute—the refusal to submit, the capacity to organise against domination, and the fortitude to assert one’s place within the political order.
However, this interpretation is not without its critics. Quentin Skinner, in representing the neo-Roman republican tradition, maintains that Machiavelli’s reliance on virtùrisks reducing politics to a contest of domination, neglecting the possibility of non-domination as the foundation of liberty.[18] Skinner argues that Machiavelli’s model, preoccupied with power struggles, undervalues the institutional guarantees that prevent arbitrary interference. The danger, in Skinner’s view, is that virtù—particularly when defined as force and deception—perpetuates the very insecurity that liberty seeks to overcome. This objection, however, misapprehends Machiavelli’s realism. Far from being opposed to institutional protections, Machiavelli’s entire analysis of Rome rests on the recognition that institutions are not self-sustaining; they require citizens imbued with virtù—ready to resist, to protest, to challenge overreach—lest the forms of liberty become hollow.
Morton Kaplan’s systems theory reinforces Machiavelli’s insight: stability arises not from the mere existence of institutions but from the pressure exerted by competing forces.[19] Without virtù, institutions ossify or become instruments of elite control. The Roman plebs’ strength lay not in legal formalism but in their willingness to exploit the fear of revolt as leverage against the aristocracy. Machiavelli’s model thus reveals liberty as a product of conflict, not consensus; virtù is the animating force that prevents institutional decay and elite capture.
Ultimately, Machiavelli’s vision of virtù—whether wielded by prince or plebeian—rests on a deductive foundation: if human nature is inherently self-interested and power-seeking, then only through the constant assertion of countervailing power can liberty endure. This virtù is not mere cunning but the political skill to navigate and shape necessity. The failure to grasp this necessity—to cling to moral platitudes or assume the benevolence of others—invites subjugation. Machiavelli’s realism, in this respect, anticipates Mearsheimer’s assertion that in politics, survival demands vigilance; the absence of power invites its abuse.[20]
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Thus, virtùemerges as the common thread binding ruler and citizen in Machiavelli’s thought. For the prince, it is the capacity to dominate and secure order; for the plebeian, it is the refusal to be dominated, the demand for security through institutional power. Both expressions of virtù respond to the same underlying reality: a world where human nature, left unchecked, tends inexorably toward domination. Freedom, for Machiavelli, is not the absence of conflict but the equilibrium produced by competing virtù—the ruler’s and the people’s—tempered by the ever-present fear of losing power.
III. Fear as the Custodian of Freedom: From Submission to Equilibrium
The prominence of fear as a stabilising force in Machiavelli’s political thought presents an immediate challenge to conventional understandings of liberty. To the modern liberal, freedom connotes autonomy—freedom from coercion—whereas fear, associated with submission, appears the very antithesis of liberty. However, Machiavelli’s conception of liberty departs radically from this liberal orthodoxy. Liberty, in his eyes, is not the absence of coercive pressure but the security that arises when no faction possesses the unchecked power to dominate others. Fear, carefully calibrated and reciprocally distributed, becomes the necessary instrument through which this equilibrium is sustained.[21]
The essence of Machiavelli’s liberty (libertà) resides in the absence of arbitrary domination. It is not freedom from law but freedom through law, where institutional checks prevent any class or individual from monopolising power.[22] Machiavelli’s Discourses on Livy reveals his admiration for the Roman Republic precisely because it institutionalised fear: the plebeians feared the aristocrats' ambition; the aristocrats feared plebeian resistance; and both feared the extraordinary powers of the consuls and tribunes.[23] This tripartite tension produced stability, not because it eradicated power struggles, but because it ensured that such struggles would remain balanced and legally contained. Fear, here, serves not as a paralysing terror but as a vigilant restraint—each class, knowing the other’s ambitions, remains alert and mobilised.
This reading aligns closely with John Mearsheimer’s offensive realism, which posits that international stability is not the product of benevolence but arises from the mutual fear of aggression among great powers.[24] Just as states deter one another through the threat of force, so too do social classes within Machiavelli’s republic maintain their freedom through the ever-present fear that any lapse in vigilance will lead to subjugation. Security—whether national or civic—is not a natural condition but a precarious equilibrium forged through power and sustained by fear.
However, critics such as Quentin Skinner argue that this reliance on fear risks undermining the very liberty Machiavelli purports to defend. Skinner’s republicanism, drawing on the neo-Roman tradition, defines liberty as non-domination—the absence of any arbitrary power capable of interfering at will.[25] From this perspective, citizens who live under constant fear, even if they are not actively oppressed, remain unfree because they are vulnerable to coercion. Fear, in Skinner’s view, breeds subjugation and erodes the conditions necessary for true civic liberty.
Yet this critique misapprehends Machiavelli’s realism. The fear he envisions is not the paralysing dread of arbitrary violence but the structural fear born of reciprocal deterrence. The plebeians fear the nobles’ ambition, but this fear galvanises them to demand tribunes and legal protections; the nobles, fearing revolt, moderate their exploitation. Liberty, for Machiavelli, is the result of this ceaseless contest—a dynamic, agonistic balance.
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III. Fear as the Custodian of Freedom: From Submission to Equilibrium
The prominence of fear as a stabilising force in Machiavelli’s political thought presents an immediate challenge to conventional understandings of liberty. To the modern liberal, freedom connotes autonomy—freedom from coercion—whereas fear, associated with submission, appears the very antithesis of liberty. However, Machiavelli’s conception of liberty departs radically from this liberal orthodoxy. Liberty, in his eyes, is not the absence of coercive pressure but the security that arises when no faction possesses the unchecked power to dominate others. Fear, carefully calibrated and reciprocally distributed, becomes the necessary instrument through which this equilibrium is sustained.[21]
The essence of Machiavelli’s liberty (libertà) resides in the absence of arbitrary domination. It is not freedom from law but freedom through law, where institutional checks prevent any class or individual from monopolising power.[22] Machiavelli’s Discourses on Livy reveals his admiration for the Roman Republic precisely because it institutionalised fear: the plebeians feared the aristocrats' ambition; the aristocrats feared plebeian resistance; and both feared the extraordinary powers of the consuls and tribunes.[23] This tripartite tension produced stability, not because it eradicated power struggles, but because it ensured that such struggles would remain balanced and legally contained. Fear, here, serves not as a paralysing terror but as a vigilant restraint—each class, knowing the other’s ambitions, remains alert and mobilised.
This reading aligns closely with John Mearsheimer’s offensive realism, which posits that international stability is not the product of benevolence but arises from the mutual fear of aggression among great powers.[24] Just as states deter one another through the threat of force, so too do social classes within Machiavelli’s republic maintain their freedom through the ever-present fear that any lapse in vigilance will lead to subjugation. Security—whether national or civic—is not a natural condition but a precarious equilibrium forged through power and sustained by fear.
However, critics such as Quentin Skinner argue that this reliance on fear risks undermining the very liberty Machiavelli purports to defend. Skinner’s republicanism, drawing on the neo-Roman tradition, defines liberty as non-domination—the absence of any arbitrary power capable of interfering at will.[25] From this perspective, citizens who live under constant fear, even if they are not actively oppressed, remain unfree because they are vulnerable to coercion. Fear, in Skinner’s view, breeds subjugation and erodes the conditions necessary for true civic liberty.
Yet this critique misapprehends Machiavelli’s realism. The fear he envisions is not the paralysing dread of arbitrary violence but the structural fear born of reciprocal deterrence. The plebeians fear the nobles’ ambition, but this fear galvanises them to demand tribunes and legal protections; the nobles, fearing revolt, moderate their exploitation. Liberty, for Machiavelli, is the result of this ceaseless contest—a dynamic, agonistic balance.
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Fear becomes the guardian of freedom because it compels citizens to remain vigilant, preserving the equilibrium upon which liberty rests.[26]
Hannah Arendt offers a more visceral critique. Writing in the aftermath of totalitarianism, she argues that fear corrodes civic virtue, reducing citizens to passive subjects. True political freedom, for Arendt, flourishes in the public sphere, where citizens engage in collective deliberation and action. Fear, by contrast, atomises society, engendering isolation and political paralysis.[27] Machiavelli’s celebration of fear, in Arendt’s view, risks hollowing out republican life, leaving only the shell of institutions populated by fearful, disengaged individuals.
Machiavelli’s response to Arendt lies in his understanding of fear as a catalyst for civic action, not its antithesis. The plebeians, driven by fear of aristocratic overreach, demanded tribunes; their fear animated resistance, giving rise to institutions that safeguarded their liberty.[28] Unlike Hobbes, who envisions fear leading to submission under a sovereign, Machiavelli’s fear is pluralistic and reciprocal. It is not the fear of a singular Leviathan but the fear that arises when power is contested and diffused across social factions. This, in turn, breeds vigilance—the plebeians’ fear is not passive but defensive, compelling them to safeguard their liberties.
Morton Kaplan’s systems theory echoes this insight: stability is not the absence of conflict but its regulation within an equilibrium.[29] Machiavelli’s republic operates as such a system—fear functions as a stabiliser, preventing any single faction from gaining dominance. The plebeians’ fear of the nobles drives them to institutionalise their power through the tribunate; the nobles, fearing insurrection, submit to legal constraints. The result is not harmony but an orchestrated tension, a system of mutual deterrence in which liberty is preserved not despite fear but because of it.
This realist conception of liberty—secured through fear and struggle—finds resonance in Ayn Rand’s rational egoism, albeit from a different angle. Rand’s insistence that freedom requires the rational defence of individual sovereignty parallels Machiavelli’s conviction that liberty is not given but seized and guarded.[30] In both cases, liberty is not the absence of power but the capacity to resist subjugation. Fear, far from negating freedom, becomes the motivator for its defence.
The logical foundation of Machiavelli’s position is thus deductively sound. If human nature is fundamentally self-serving and power-seeking, and if liberty is the absence of domination, then freedom can only endure when power is balanced through institutional competition. Fear becomes the necessary mechanism by which this balance is maintained. Without fear, vigilance wanes, and power consolidates; liberty erodes not through violence but through complacency. Machiavelli’s fear is not the enemy of freedom but its sentry—standing guard over a liberty perpetually threatened by the ambitions of men.
IV. The Spectre of Tyranny: Does Fear Escape Its Chains?
If fear, in Machiavelli’s realist framework, is the guardian of liberty when institutionalised within a balanced political order, it also harbours an ever-present danger—its instrumentalisation by rulers and elites can swiftly morph into unchecked tyranny. This risk is not theoretical but embedded in the very logic of power. Machiavelli’s own Prince celebrates the prudent application of cruelty and deception as the tools of statecraft, permitting violence when necessary to secure political stability.[31] Here, fear appears not as the reciprocal restraint seen in the Discourses on Livy but as a one-sided weapon wielded by a singular sovereign against the people. The tension is unmistakable: if fear preserves liberty when diffused across a republic, does it not also enable its destruction when monopolised by a prince?
This concern mirrors the perennial problem in realist political thought. John Mearsheimer, in analysing great powers, concedes that
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Hannah Arendt offers a more visceral critique. Writing in the aftermath of totalitarianism, she argues that fear corrodes civic virtue, reducing citizens to passive subjects. True political freedom, for Arendt, flourishes in the public sphere, where citizens engage in collective deliberation and action. Fear, by contrast, atomises society, engendering isolation and political paralysis.[27] Machiavelli’s celebration of fear, in Arendt’s view, risks hollowing out republican life, leaving only the shell of institutions populated by fearful, disengaged individuals.
Machiavelli’s response to Arendt lies in his understanding of fear as a catalyst for civic action, not its antithesis. The plebeians, driven by fear of aristocratic overreach, demanded tribunes; their fear animated resistance, giving rise to institutions that safeguarded their liberty.[28] Unlike Hobbes, who envisions fear leading to submission under a sovereign, Machiavelli’s fear is pluralistic and reciprocal. It is not the fear of a singular Leviathan but the fear that arises when power is contested and diffused across social factions. This, in turn, breeds vigilance—the plebeians’ fear is not passive but defensive, compelling them to safeguard their liberties.
Morton Kaplan’s systems theory echoes this insight: stability is not the absence of conflict but its regulation within an equilibrium.[29] Machiavelli’s republic operates as such a system—fear functions as a stabiliser, preventing any single faction from gaining dominance. The plebeians’ fear of the nobles drives them to institutionalise their power through the tribunate; the nobles, fearing insurrection, submit to legal constraints. The result is not harmony but an orchestrated tension, a system of mutual deterrence in which liberty is preserved not despite fear but because of it.
This realist conception of liberty—secured through fear and struggle—finds resonance in Ayn Rand’s rational egoism, albeit from a different angle. Rand’s insistence that freedom requires the rational defence of individual sovereignty parallels Machiavelli’s conviction that liberty is not given but seized and guarded.[30] In both cases, liberty is not the absence of power but the capacity to resist subjugation. Fear, far from negating freedom, becomes the motivator for its defence.
The logical foundation of Machiavelli’s position is thus deductively sound. If human nature is fundamentally self-serving and power-seeking, and if liberty is the absence of domination, then freedom can only endure when power is balanced through institutional competition. Fear becomes the necessary mechanism by which this balance is maintained. Without fear, vigilance wanes, and power consolidates; liberty erodes not through violence but through complacency. Machiavelli’s fear is not the enemy of freedom but its sentry—standing guard over a liberty perpetually threatened by the ambitions of men.
IV. The Spectre of Tyranny: Does Fear Escape Its Chains?
If fear, in Machiavelli’s realist framework, is the guardian of liberty when institutionalised within a balanced political order, it also harbours an ever-present danger—its instrumentalisation by rulers and elites can swiftly morph into unchecked tyranny. This risk is not theoretical but embedded in the very logic of power. Machiavelli’s own Prince celebrates the prudent application of cruelty and deception as the tools of statecraft, permitting violence when necessary to secure political stability.[31] Here, fear appears not as the reciprocal restraint seen in the Discourses on Livy but as a one-sided weapon wielded by a singular sovereign against the people. The tension is unmistakable: if fear preserves liberty when diffused across a republic, does it not also enable its destruction when monopolised by a prince?
This concern mirrors the perennial problem in realist political thought. John Mearsheimer, in analysing great powers, concedes that
5/5
🤔1
S. Tominaga AKA CSW
Feb 18, 2025
https://x.com/CsTominaga/status/1891728066550038828?t=7LNV-PR8fT3gCnlZaIGDjg&s=19
https://t.me/S_Tominaga/2617
Feb 18, 2025
https://x.com/CsTominaga/status/1891728066550038828?t=7LNV-PR8fT3gCnlZaIGDjg&s=19
https://t.me/S_Tominaga/2617
👍1
The Sculptor's Desk: Crafting Narratives
S Tominaga
@CsTominaga
·
18 feb.
Through the lens of this screenwriting course, the act of writing has revealed itself not as a mere accumulation of words, but as the careful chiseling of a narrative from the unyielding stone of ideas. The discipline lies in the cutting away, the stark decision of what is left unsaid. Screenwriting, I’ve come to see, is less about what is placed on the page than about the silences that linger between the lines, the spaces where meaning gathers like dust in the light. It is a practice that demands restraint, shaping the story not through abundance but through absence, a process that has fundamentally redefined the way I understand the telling of a tale. The process of revision and refinement—of carving out the unnecessary to let the essence remain—has been the most significant lesson.
Initially, I approached screenwriting as a way to structure ideas, believing that form was merely a tool for organizing creativity. However, the course has demonstrated that form is an art in itself. A script must convey not only the plot but also the rhythm, tone, and subtext of a story. Every element, from dialogue to scene direction, must serve the narrative’s larger purpose. This understanding has transformed how I approach revision. It is not merely a task of cleaning up errors or tightening dialogue but of sculpting—chiseling away what does not belong to reveal the story’s core.
This was particularly evident in exercises where I revised scenes multiple times. Early drafts often overflowed with extraneous details or indulgent dialogue. Revision taught me the discipline of subtraction—removing lines, beats, and even entire characters to enhance the focus and emotional resonance. For example, in one early script, a subplot involving a secondary character diluted the story’s central tension. Cutting it, though painful, clarified the protagonist’s arc and heightened the stakes. This process underscored that restraint is not a limitation but a strength in storytelling.
Another key takeaway has been the importance of narrative structure as a sculpting tool. The three-act structure, often misunderstood as restrictive, emerged as a framework for crafting tension and resolution. I learned that within this structure lies infinite room for creativity. A story needs its question, planted like a seed in the first act, left to grow wild through the second, and then harvested in the third. That rhythm, the rise and fall of it, ain’t just a pattern; it’s the blood running through the narrative’s veins. This framework, it don’t fence you in—it steadies you, lets you see how structure ain’t a burden but a scaffold, a thing that lifts the vision higher without crushing the weight of it.
I’ve learned to reckon with the quiet force of subtext, the way it lingers in the spaces between words. Screenwriting don’t allow for sprawling explanations or the luxury of a character’s inner musings spilled across the page. It demands restraint. And in that restraint, the unspoken carries its own weight—emotions unsaid, truths unspoken, hanging there like shadows cast by what is left unsaid. I learned to craft dialogue and action that suggest rather than state, trusting the audience to fill in the gaps. This realization has refined my writing, allowing me to convey complexity with fewer words.
This course has reshaped my perspective, teaching me to approach storytelling as a sculptor approaches a block of stone. The raw material—the first draft, the chaotic flood of ideas—is only the beginning. The real work lies in the carving, the slow and deliberate removal of excess, until what remains is a form both true and precise. I’ve learned to welcome the challenge of cutting away, to see it not as a loss but as a revelation of strength and clarity.
This discipline, this art of subtraction, will shape not just my screenwriting but every creative effort I undertake, grounding each in the truth that simplicity is often the deepest form of beauty.
CSW
Feb 18, 2025
https://t.me/S_Tominaga/2617
S Tominaga
@CsTominaga
·
18 feb.
Through the lens of this screenwriting course, the act of writing has revealed itself not as a mere accumulation of words, but as the careful chiseling of a narrative from the unyielding stone of ideas. The discipline lies in the cutting away, the stark decision of what is left unsaid. Screenwriting, I’ve come to see, is less about what is placed on the page than about the silences that linger between the lines, the spaces where meaning gathers like dust in the light. It is a practice that demands restraint, shaping the story not through abundance but through absence, a process that has fundamentally redefined the way I understand the telling of a tale. The process of revision and refinement—of carving out the unnecessary to let the essence remain—has been the most significant lesson.
Initially, I approached screenwriting as a way to structure ideas, believing that form was merely a tool for organizing creativity. However, the course has demonstrated that form is an art in itself. A script must convey not only the plot but also the rhythm, tone, and subtext of a story. Every element, from dialogue to scene direction, must serve the narrative’s larger purpose. This understanding has transformed how I approach revision. It is not merely a task of cleaning up errors or tightening dialogue but of sculpting—chiseling away what does not belong to reveal the story’s core.
This was particularly evident in exercises where I revised scenes multiple times. Early drafts often overflowed with extraneous details or indulgent dialogue. Revision taught me the discipline of subtraction—removing lines, beats, and even entire characters to enhance the focus and emotional resonance. For example, in one early script, a subplot involving a secondary character diluted the story’s central tension. Cutting it, though painful, clarified the protagonist’s arc and heightened the stakes. This process underscored that restraint is not a limitation but a strength in storytelling.
Another key takeaway has been the importance of narrative structure as a sculpting tool. The three-act structure, often misunderstood as restrictive, emerged as a framework for crafting tension and resolution. I learned that within this structure lies infinite room for creativity. A story needs its question, planted like a seed in the first act, left to grow wild through the second, and then harvested in the third. That rhythm, the rise and fall of it, ain’t just a pattern; it’s the blood running through the narrative’s veins. This framework, it don’t fence you in—it steadies you, lets you see how structure ain’t a burden but a scaffold, a thing that lifts the vision higher without crushing the weight of it.
I’ve learned to reckon with the quiet force of subtext, the way it lingers in the spaces between words. Screenwriting don’t allow for sprawling explanations or the luxury of a character’s inner musings spilled across the page. It demands restraint. And in that restraint, the unspoken carries its own weight—emotions unsaid, truths unspoken, hanging there like shadows cast by what is left unsaid. I learned to craft dialogue and action that suggest rather than state, trusting the audience to fill in the gaps. This realization has refined my writing, allowing me to convey complexity with fewer words.
This course has reshaped my perspective, teaching me to approach storytelling as a sculptor approaches a block of stone. The raw material—the first draft, the chaotic flood of ideas—is only the beginning. The real work lies in the carving, the slow and deliberate removal of excess, until what remains is a form both true and precise. I’ve learned to welcome the challenge of cutting away, to see it not as a loss but as a revelation of strength and clarity.
This discipline, this art of subtraction, will shape not just my screenwriting but every creative effort I undertake, grounding each in the truth that simplicity is often the deepest form of beauty.
CSW
Feb 18, 2025
https://t.me/S_Tominaga/2617
El escritorio del escultor: la creación de narrativas
S Tominaga
@CsTominaga
·
18 feb.
A través de la lente de este curso de escritura de guiones, el acto de escribir se ha revelado no como una mera acumulación de palabras, sino como el cuidadoso cincelado de una narrativa a partir de la piedra inquebrantable de las ideas. La disciplina radica en el recorte, la decisión tajante de lo que se deja sin decir. He llegado a ver que escribir guiones tiene menos que ver con lo que se coloca en la página que con los silencios que persisten entre las líneas, los espacios donde el significado se acumula como polvo a la luz. Es una práctica que exige moderación, dando forma a la historia no a través de la abundancia sino a través de la ausencia, un proceso que ha redefinido fundamentalmente la forma en que entiendo la narración de un cuento. El proceso de revisión y refinamiento (de eliminar lo innecesario para dejar que permanezca la esencia) ha sido la lección más importante.
Inicialmente, abordé la escritura de guiones como una forma de estructurar ideas, creyendo que la forma era simplemente una herramienta para organizar la creatividad. Sin embargo, el curso ha demostrado que la forma es un arte en sí misma. Un guion debe transmitir no solo la trama, sino también el ritmo, el tono y el subtexto de una historia. Cada elemento, desde el diálogo hasta la dirección de escena, debe servir al propósito más amplio de la narrativa. Esta comprensión ha transformado mi forma de abordar la revisión. No es simplemente una tarea de limpiar errores o ajustar el diálogo, sino de esculpir, eliminar lo que no pertenece para revelar el núcleo de la historia.
Esto fue particularmente evidente en los ejercicios en los que revisé escenas varias veces. Los primeros borradores a menudo rebosaban de detalles superfluos o diálogos indulgentes. La revisión me enseñó la disciplina de la sustracción: eliminar líneas, ritmos e incluso personajes enteros para realzar el enfoque y la resonancia emocional. Por ejemplo, en un guion inicial, una subtrama que involucraba a un personaje secundario diluía la tensión central de la historia. Cortarla, aunque fue doloroso, aclaró el arco del protagonista y aumentó lo que estaba en juego. Este proceso subrayó que la moderación no es una limitación, sino una fortaleza en la narración.
Otra de las conclusiones clave que he aprendido es la importancia de la estructura narrativa como herramienta para esculpir. La estructura de tres actos, que a menudo se malinterpreta como restrictiva, surgió como un marco para crear tensión y resolución. Aprendí que dentro de esta estructura hay un espacio infinito para la creatividad. Una historia necesita su pregunta, plantada como una semilla en el primer acto, dejada crecer libremente durante el segundo y luego cosechada en el tercero. Ese ritmo, el ascenso y la caída, no es solo un patrón; es la sangre que corre por las venas de la narrativa. Este marco no te encierra, te estabiliza, te permite ver que la estructura no es una carga sino un andamio, algo que eleva la visión más alto sin aplastarla.
He aprendido a tener en cuenta la fuerza silenciosa del subtexto, la forma en que persiste en los espacios entre las palabras. La escritura de guiones no permite explicaciones extensas ni el lujo de que las reflexiones internas de un personaje se viertan en la página. Exige moderación. Y en esa moderación, lo no dicho lleva su propio peso: emociones no dichas, verdades no dichas, que cuelgan como sombras proyectadas por lo que se deja sin decir. Aprendí a crear diálogos y acciones que sugieren en lugar de afirmar, confiando en que el público rellene los espacios vacíos. Esta constatación ha refinado mi escritura, permitiéndome transmitir complejidad con menos palabras.
Este curso ha transformado mi perspectiva, enseñándome a abordar la narración como un escultor aborda un bloque de piedra. La materia prima (el primer borrador, el torrente caótico de ideas) es solo el comienzo.
S Tominaga
@CsTominaga
·
18 feb.
A través de la lente de este curso de escritura de guiones, el acto de escribir se ha revelado no como una mera acumulación de palabras, sino como el cuidadoso cincelado de una narrativa a partir de la piedra inquebrantable de las ideas. La disciplina radica en el recorte, la decisión tajante de lo que se deja sin decir. He llegado a ver que escribir guiones tiene menos que ver con lo que se coloca en la página que con los silencios que persisten entre las líneas, los espacios donde el significado se acumula como polvo a la luz. Es una práctica que exige moderación, dando forma a la historia no a través de la abundancia sino a través de la ausencia, un proceso que ha redefinido fundamentalmente la forma en que entiendo la narración de un cuento. El proceso de revisión y refinamiento (de eliminar lo innecesario para dejar que permanezca la esencia) ha sido la lección más importante.
Inicialmente, abordé la escritura de guiones como una forma de estructurar ideas, creyendo que la forma era simplemente una herramienta para organizar la creatividad. Sin embargo, el curso ha demostrado que la forma es un arte en sí misma. Un guion debe transmitir no solo la trama, sino también el ritmo, el tono y el subtexto de una historia. Cada elemento, desde el diálogo hasta la dirección de escena, debe servir al propósito más amplio de la narrativa. Esta comprensión ha transformado mi forma de abordar la revisión. No es simplemente una tarea de limpiar errores o ajustar el diálogo, sino de esculpir, eliminar lo que no pertenece para revelar el núcleo de la historia.
Esto fue particularmente evidente en los ejercicios en los que revisé escenas varias veces. Los primeros borradores a menudo rebosaban de detalles superfluos o diálogos indulgentes. La revisión me enseñó la disciplina de la sustracción: eliminar líneas, ritmos e incluso personajes enteros para realzar el enfoque y la resonancia emocional. Por ejemplo, en un guion inicial, una subtrama que involucraba a un personaje secundario diluía la tensión central de la historia. Cortarla, aunque fue doloroso, aclaró el arco del protagonista y aumentó lo que estaba en juego. Este proceso subrayó que la moderación no es una limitación, sino una fortaleza en la narración.
Otra de las conclusiones clave que he aprendido es la importancia de la estructura narrativa como herramienta para esculpir. La estructura de tres actos, que a menudo se malinterpreta como restrictiva, surgió como un marco para crear tensión y resolución. Aprendí que dentro de esta estructura hay un espacio infinito para la creatividad. Una historia necesita su pregunta, plantada como una semilla en el primer acto, dejada crecer libremente durante el segundo y luego cosechada en el tercero. Ese ritmo, el ascenso y la caída, no es solo un patrón; es la sangre que corre por las venas de la narrativa. Este marco no te encierra, te estabiliza, te permite ver que la estructura no es una carga sino un andamio, algo que eleva la visión más alto sin aplastarla.
He aprendido a tener en cuenta la fuerza silenciosa del subtexto, la forma en que persiste en los espacios entre las palabras. La escritura de guiones no permite explicaciones extensas ni el lujo de que las reflexiones internas de un personaje se viertan en la página. Exige moderación. Y en esa moderación, lo no dicho lleva su propio peso: emociones no dichas, verdades no dichas, que cuelgan como sombras proyectadas por lo que se deja sin decir. Aprendí a crear diálogos y acciones que sugieren en lugar de afirmar, confiando en que el público rellene los espacios vacíos. Esta constatación ha refinado mi escritura, permitiéndome transmitir complejidad con menos palabras.
Este curso ha transformado mi perspectiva, enseñándome a abordar la narración como un escultor aborda un bloque de piedra. La materia prima (el primer borrador, el torrente caótico de ideas) es solo el comienzo.
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CSW S. Tominaga
S. Tominaga AKA CSW
Feb 18, 2025
https://x.com/CsTominaga/status/1891728066550038828?t=7LNV-PR8fT3gCnlZaIGDjg&s=19
https://t.me/S_Tominaga/2617
Feb 18, 2025
https://x.com/CsTominaga/status/1891728066550038828?t=7LNV-PR8fT3gCnlZaIGDjg&s=19
https://t.me/S_Tominaga/2617
El verdadero trabajo consiste en tallar, en eliminar lentamente y deliberadamente el exceso, hasta que lo que queda es una forma verdadera y precisa. He aprendido a aceptar el desafío de cortar, a verlo no como una pérdida sino como una revelación de fuerza y claridad.
Esta disciplina, este arte de la sustracción, dará forma no solo a mi escritura de guiones, sino a cada esfuerzo creativo que emprenda, fundamentando cada uno en la verdad de que la simplicidad es a menudo la forma más profunda de belleza.
CSW
18 de febrero de 2025
https://t.me/S_Tominaga/2617
Esta disciplina, este arte de la sustracción, dará forma no solo a mi escritura de guiones, sino a cada esfuerzo creativo que emprenda, fundamentando cada uno en la verdad de que la simplicidad es a menudo la forma más profunda de belleza.
CSW
18 de febrero de 2025
https://t.me/S_Tominaga/2617
Telegram
CSW S. Tominaga
S. Tominaga AKA CSW
Feb 18, 2025
https://x.com/CsTominaga/status/1891728066550038828?t=7LNV-PR8fT3gCnlZaIGDjg&s=19
https://t.me/S_Tominaga/2617
Feb 18, 2025
https://x.com/CsTominaga/status/1891728066550038828?t=7LNV-PR8fT3gCnlZaIGDjg&s=19
https://t.me/S_Tominaga/2617
BTC is dropping and it is based on coin go up...
That is an issue that will have dire outcomes, not BSV.
El precio de BTC está cayendo y esto se debe a que la moneda sube...
Ese es un problema que tendrá consecuencias nefastas, no el de BSV.
S. Tominaga AKA CSW
Mar 2, 2025
https://x.com/CsTominaga/status/1896105072247128349?t=m87pnF7RQ_Fq9hI_7UnF-g&s=19
https://t.me/S_Tominaga/2622
That is an issue that will have dire outcomes, not BSV.
El precio de BTC está cayendo y esto se debe a que la moneda sube...
Ese es un problema que tendrá consecuencias nefastas, no el de BSV.
S. Tominaga AKA CSW
Mar 2, 2025
https://x.com/CsTominaga/status/1896105072247128349?t=m87pnF7RQ_Fq9hI_7UnF-g&s=19
https://t.me/S_Tominaga/2622
❤2
S. Tominaga AKA CSW
Mar 2, 2025
https://x.com/CsTominaga/status/1896104743656964479?t=-7TUzSmcbn93Rbixe4VOhg&s=19
https://t.me/S_Tominaga/2623
Mar 2, 2025
https://x.com/CsTominaga/status/1896104743656964479?t=-7TUzSmcbn93Rbixe4VOhg&s=19
https://t.me/S_Tominaga/2623
The genius of Common Sense was not in its attack on tyranny, but in its rejection of compromise. Before Paine, the American opposition had busied itself with pleading—arguing against Parliament’s excesses, debating the legal limits of taxation, petitioning the very institutions that sought to keep them bound. They framed their resistance as a demand for redress, an insistence on proper representation, a return to some imagined constitutional harmony. But Paine understood that men do not beg for freedom. They claim it. And a man who claims it does not appeal to the benevolence of his oppressor—he severs himself from the yoke entirely.
Paine shifted attention from Parliament to the Crown because Parliament was a symptom, not the cause. The crisis was not a matter of poor governance or excessive taxation; it was the fundamental contradiction of monarchy itself. Kings rule not by reason but by force wrapped in ceremony, power disguised as tradition. To focus on Parliament’s policies was to quibble over details while ignoring the iron foundation of subjugation. It was monarchy, not ministry, that made America’s servitude inevitable. And so long as Americans saw themselves as subjects, they would never be sovereign.
His analysis shattered the illusion that the colonies could negotiate their way to liberty. Before Common Sense, many believed in reconciliation, in the idea that Britain could be persuaded to return to fairness. Paine demolished this notion. He showed that Britain’s interests were irreconcilable with America’s, that submission and domination were not temporary conditions but the nature of the system itself. A government built on hereditary rule was an insult to the rational mind, a mockery of justice. To remain loyal to the Crown was not only to accept oppression but to surrender one’s self-respect. Common Sense made the alternative obvious: not a return to negotiation, not an adjustment of laws, but an entirely new order—an independent republic, governed by reason, bound by nothing but the consent of free men.
The effect was immediate and profound. Before Paine, the American cause was a movement of resistance; after Common Sense, it became a movement of creation. Men who had hesitated, who had justified their reluctance with appeals to loyalty or tradition, now saw clearly: the choice was not between different kinds of British rule but between freedom and subjugation. Paine did not introduce a new idea; he stripped away the excuses men used to deny the truth. He made it impossible to remain in the middle. Common Sense did not persuade—it exposed. And once exposed, the weakness of the Crown and the absurdity of allegiance could no longer be ignored.
The revolution was no longer a plea for rights. It was a demand for self-determination. A man who accepts his own sovereignty does not ask for permission to be free. He declares it.
S. Tominaga AKA CSW
Mar 2, 2025
https://x.com/CsTominaga/status/1896104743656964479?t=-7TUzSmcbn93Rbixe4VOhg&s=19
https://t.me/S_Tominaga/2623
Paine shifted attention from Parliament to the Crown because Parliament was a symptom, not the cause. The crisis was not a matter of poor governance or excessive taxation; it was the fundamental contradiction of monarchy itself. Kings rule not by reason but by force wrapped in ceremony, power disguised as tradition. To focus on Parliament’s policies was to quibble over details while ignoring the iron foundation of subjugation. It was monarchy, not ministry, that made America’s servitude inevitable. And so long as Americans saw themselves as subjects, they would never be sovereign.
His analysis shattered the illusion that the colonies could negotiate their way to liberty. Before Common Sense, many believed in reconciliation, in the idea that Britain could be persuaded to return to fairness. Paine demolished this notion. He showed that Britain’s interests were irreconcilable with America’s, that submission and domination were not temporary conditions but the nature of the system itself. A government built on hereditary rule was an insult to the rational mind, a mockery of justice. To remain loyal to the Crown was not only to accept oppression but to surrender one’s self-respect. Common Sense made the alternative obvious: not a return to negotiation, not an adjustment of laws, but an entirely new order—an independent republic, governed by reason, bound by nothing but the consent of free men.
The effect was immediate and profound. Before Paine, the American cause was a movement of resistance; after Common Sense, it became a movement of creation. Men who had hesitated, who had justified their reluctance with appeals to loyalty or tradition, now saw clearly: the choice was not between different kinds of British rule but between freedom and subjugation. Paine did not introduce a new idea; he stripped away the excuses men used to deny the truth. He made it impossible to remain in the middle. Common Sense did not persuade—it exposed. And once exposed, the weakness of the Crown and the absurdity of allegiance could no longer be ignored.
The revolution was no longer a plea for rights. It was a demand for self-determination. A man who accepts his own sovereignty does not ask for permission to be free. He declares it.
S. Tominaga AKA CSW
Mar 2, 2025
https://x.com/CsTominaga/status/1896104743656964479?t=-7TUzSmcbn93Rbixe4VOhg&s=19
https://t.me/S_Tominaga/2623
❤1
El genio del Sentido Común no estaba en su ataque a la tiranía, sino en su rechazo a los compromisos. Antes de Paine, la oposición estadounidense se había dedicado a argumentar contra los excesos del Parlamento, a debatir los límites legales de los impuestos, a presentar peticiones a las mismas instituciones que buscaban mantenerlos atados. Enmarcaron su resistencia como una demanda de reparación, una insistencia en una representación adecuada, un retorno a una supuesta armonía constitucional. Pero Paine comprendió que los hombres no imploran por la libertad, sino que la reclaman. Y un hombre que la reclama no apela a la benevolencia de su opresor, sino que se libera por completo del yugo.
Paine desvió la atención del Parlamento hacia la Corona porque el Parlamento era un síntoma, no la causa. La crisis no era una cuestión de mal gobierno o de impuestos excesivos, sino la contradicción fundamental de la monarquía misma. Los reyes no gobiernan con la razón, sino con la fuerza envuelta en ceremonia, con un poder disfrazado de tradición. Concentrarse en las políticas del Parlamento era discutir sobre detalles mientras se ignoraba el férreo fundamento de la subyugación. Fue la monarquía, no el ministerio, lo que hizo inevitable la servidumbre de Estados Unidos. Y mientras los estadounidenses se vieran a sí mismos como súbditos, nunca serían soberanos.
Su análisis destruyó la ilusión de que las colonias podían negociar su camino hacia la libertad. Antes de Sentido Común, muchos creían en la reconciliación, en la idea de que se podía persuadir a Gran Bretaña para que volviera a la justicia. Paine demolió esta noción. Demostró que los intereses de Gran Bretaña eran irreconciliables con los de Estados Unidos, que la sumisión y la dominación no eran condiciones temporales sino la naturaleza misma del sistema. Un gobierno construido sobre el gobierno hereditario era un insulto a la mente racional, una burla a la justicia. Permanecer leal a la Corona no era sólo aceptar la opresión sino renunciar al propio respeto. Sentido Común hizo obvia la alternativa: no un regreso a la negociación, no un ajuste de las leyes, sino un orden completamente nuevo: una república independiente, gobernada por la razón, vinculada únicamente por el consentimiento de los hombres libres.
El efecto fue inmediato y profundo. Antes de Paine, la causa estadounidense era un movimiento de resistencia; Después de Sentido Común, se convirtió en un movimiento de creación. Los hombres que habían dudado, que habían justificado su renuencia con apelaciones a la lealtad o a la tradición, ahora vieron claramente: la elección no era entre diferentes tipos de gobierno británico, sino entre libertad y subyugación. Paine no introdujo una idea nueva; eliminó las excusas que los hombres usaban para negar la verdad. Hizo imposible permanecer en el medio. Sentido Común no persuadía: exponía. Y una vez expuesta, la debilidad de la Corona y el absurdo de la lealtad ya no podían ignorarse.
La revolución ya no era una reivindicación de derechos. Era una demanda de autodeterminación. Un hombre que acepta su propia soberanía no pide permiso para ser libre. La declara.
S. Tominaga también conocido como CSW
2 de marzo de 2025
https://x.com/CsTominaga/status/1896104743656964479?t=-7TUzSmcbn93Rbixe4VOhg&s=19
https://t.me/S_Tominaga/2623
Paine desvió la atención del Parlamento hacia la Corona porque el Parlamento era un síntoma, no la causa. La crisis no era una cuestión de mal gobierno o de impuestos excesivos, sino la contradicción fundamental de la monarquía misma. Los reyes no gobiernan con la razón, sino con la fuerza envuelta en ceremonia, con un poder disfrazado de tradición. Concentrarse en las políticas del Parlamento era discutir sobre detalles mientras se ignoraba el férreo fundamento de la subyugación. Fue la monarquía, no el ministerio, lo que hizo inevitable la servidumbre de Estados Unidos. Y mientras los estadounidenses se vieran a sí mismos como súbditos, nunca serían soberanos.
Su análisis destruyó la ilusión de que las colonias podían negociar su camino hacia la libertad. Antes de Sentido Común, muchos creían en la reconciliación, en la idea de que se podía persuadir a Gran Bretaña para que volviera a la justicia. Paine demolió esta noción. Demostró que los intereses de Gran Bretaña eran irreconciliables con los de Estados Unidos, que la sumisión y la dominación no eran condiciones temporales sino la naturaleza misma del sistema. Un gobierno construido sobre el gobierno hereditario era un insulto a la mente racional, una burla a la justicia. Permanecer leal a la Corona no era sólo aceptar la opresión sino renunciar al propio respeto. Sentido Común hizo obvia la alternativa: no un regreso a la negociación, no un ajuste de las leyes, sino un orden completamente nuevo: una república independiente, gobernada por la razón, vinculada únicamente por el consentimiento de los hombres libres.
El efecto fue inmediato y profundo. Antes de Paine, la causa estadounidense era un movimiento de resistencia; Después de Sentido Común, se convirtió en un movimiento de creación. Los hombres que habían dudado, que habían justificado su renuencia con apelaciones a la lealtad o a la tradición, ahora vieron claramente: la elección no era entre diferentes tipos de gobierno británico, sino entre libertad y subyugación. Paine no introdujo una idea nueva; eliminó las excusas que los hombres usaban para negar la verdad. Hizo imposible permanecer en el medio. Sentido Común no persuadía: exponía. Y una vez expuesta, la debilidad de la Corona y el absurdo de la lealtad ya no podían ignorarse.
La revolución ya no era una reivindicación de derechos. Era una demanda de autodeterminación. Un hombre que acepta su propia soberanía no pide permiso para ser libre. La declara.
S. Tominaga también conocido como CSW
2 de marzo de 2025
https://x.com/CsTominaga/status/1896104743656964479?t=-7TUzSmcbn93Rbixe4VOhg&s=19
https://t.me/S_Tominaga/2623
S. Tominaga AKA CSW
Mar 2, 2025
https://x.com/CsTominaga/status/1896102803267068029?t=sjQGTCZCtXsS94VIDxmVOA&s=19
https://t.me/S_Tominaga/2626
Mar 2, 2025
https://x.com/CsTominaga/status/1896102803267068029?t=sjQGTCZCtXsS94VIDxmVOA&s=19
https://t.me/S_Tominaga/2626
The American Revolution was not a tragedy of hypocrisy—it was the triumph of an idea too great to be diminished by the men who failed to live up to it.
The contradiction of men who owned slaves while proclaiming liberty was not a failure of history but of their own character. Yet their failure does not stain the principle they invoked. Liberty is not defined by those unworthy of it; it is defined by those who claim it through action, through struggle, through the refusal to submit.
Dr. Samuel Johnson saw only the contradiction, but he failed to see the deeper truth: that the greatness of an idea is not dependent on the perfection of those who first speak it. The men who wrote of liberty but did not extend it to all were small, but the ideal they unleashed was not. The fault was not in the Revolution itself but in the men who sought to have it both ways. And history does not favor those who hesitate between two roads. The ideal of freedom had no patience for their compromise—it burned forward, carried not by those who spoke of it but by those who lived it.
And among those who lived it were the men and women who refused to be owned. Not victims of history, not passive figures in some preordained struggle, but individuals who seized their own destiny. Some fled to the British, recognizing that their liberty lay not in empty promises but in action. Others fought alongside revolutionaries, knowing that an imperfect cause for freedom was still a cause worth pursuing. They did not wait for history to grant them anything. They took it. The future belonged to those who understood that liberty is not a gift, nor a decree, but the rightful claim of all who have the strength to assert it.
The Revolution was not a shifting of power between groups—it was a battle for the sovereignty of the individual. It was not history that made it so, nor inevitability, nor social forces, but men who chose to fight for something greater than themselves. And while many of them faltered in their own convictions, the ideal they fought for did not. That ideal was not theirs to corrupt. It was, and remains, the property of those strong enough to uphold it, to fight for it, and to claim it for their own. The Revolution was not the triumph of men—it was the triumph of liberty over those too weak to understand it.
S. Tominaga AKA CSW
Mar 2, 2025
https://x.com/CsTominaga/status/1896102803267068029?t=sjQGTCZCtXsS94VIDxmVOA&s=19
https://t.me/S_Tominaga/2623
The contradiction of men who owned slaves while proclaiming liberty was not a failure of history but of their own character. Yet their failure does not stain the principle they invoked. Liberty is not defined by those unworthy of it; it is defined by those who claim it through action, through struggle, through the refusal to submit.
Dr. Samuel Johnson saw only the contradiction, but he failed to see the deeper truth: that the greatness of an idea is not dependent on the perfection of those who first speak it. The men who wrote of liberty but did not extend it to all were small, but the ideal they unleashed was not. The fault was not in the Revolution itself but in the men who sought to have it both ways. And history does not favor those who hesitate between two roads. The ideal of freedom had no patience for their compromise—it burned forward, carried not by those who spoke of it but by those who lived it.
And among those who lived it were the men and women who refused to be owned. Not victims of history, not passive figures in some preordained struggle, but individuals who seized their own destiny. Some fled to the British, recognizing that their liberty lay not in empty promises but in action. Others fought alongside revolutionaries, knowing that an imperfect cause for freedom was still a cause worth pursuing. They did not wait for history to grant them anything. They took it. The future belonged to those who understood that liberty is not a gift, nor a decree, but the rightful claim of all who have the strength to assert it.
The Revolution was not a shifting of power between groups—it was a battle for the sovereignty of the individual. It was not history that made it so, nor inevitability, nor social forces, but men who chose to fight for something greater than themselves. And while many of them faltered in their own convictions, the ideal they fought for did not. That ideal was not theirs to corrupt. It was, and remains, the property of those strong enough to uphold it, to fight for it, and to claim it for their own. The Revolution was not the triumph of men—it was the triumph of liberty over those too weak to understand it.
S. Tominaga AKA CSW
Mar 2, 2025
https://x.com/CsTominaga/status/1896102803267068029?t=sjQGTCZCtXsS94VIDxmVOA&s=19
https://t.me/S_Tominaga/2623
X (formerly Twitter)
S Tominaga (@CsTominaga) on X
The American Revolution was not a tragedy of hypocrisy—it was the triumph of an idea too great to be diminished by the men who failed to live up to it.
The contradiction of men who owned slaves while proclaiming liberty was not a failure of history but of…
The contradiction of men who owned slaves while proclaiming liberty was not a failure of history but of…
❤1
La Revolución estadounidense no fue una tragedia de hipocresía, fue el triunfo de una idea demasiado grande para ser disminuida por los hombres que no estuvieron a la altura de ella.
La contradicción de los hombres que poseían esclavos mientras proclamaban la libertad no fue un fracaso de la historia, sino de su propio carácter. Sin embargo, su fracaso no mancha el principio que invocaban. La libertad no la definen quienes no la merecen; la definen quienes la reclaman mediante la acción, la lucha, la negativa a someterse.
El Dr. Samuel Johnson sólo vio la contradicción, pero no vio la verdad más profunda: que la grandeza de una idea no depende de la perfección de quienes la expresan primero. Los hombres que escribieron sobre la libertad pero no la extendieron a todos eran pequeños, pero el ideal que desataron no lo era. La culpa no estuvo en la Revolución en sí, sino en los hombres que buscaron tener ambas cosas. Y la historia no favorece a quienes dudan entre dos caminos. El ideal de la libertad no tuvo paciencia para sus compromisos; ardió hacia adelante, llevado no por quienes hablaron de él, sino por quienes lo vivieron.
Y entre quienes la vivieron estaban los hombres y mujeres que se negaron a ser propiedad de nadie. No fueron víctimas de la historia, ni figuras pasivas en alguna lucha predestinada, sino individuos que se adueñaron de su propio destino. Algunos huyeron a Gran Bretaña, reconociendo que su libertad no residía en promesas vacías, sino en la acción. Otros lucharon junto a los revolucionarios, sabiendo que una causa imperfecta por la libertad era, de todos modos, una causa que valía la pena perseguir. No esperaron a que la historia les concediera algo. Lo tomaron. El futuro pertenecía a quienes comprendían que la libertad no es un regalo ni un decreto, sino el derecho legítimo de todos los que tienen la fuerza para hacerla valer.
La Revolución no fue un cambio de poder entre grupos, fue una batalla por la soberanía del individuo. No fue la historia lo que la hizo así, ni la inevitabilidad, ni las fuerzas sociales, sino hombres que eligieron luchar por algo más grande que ellos mismos. Y aunque muchos de ellos vacilaron en sus propias convicciones, el ideal por el que lucharon no lo hizo. Ese ideal no era suyo para corromperlo. Fue, y sigue siendo, propiedad de aquellos lo suficientemente fuertes para defenderla, luchar por ella y reclamarla como propia. La Revolución no fue el triunfo de los hombres, fue el triunfo de la libertad sobre aquellos demasiado débiles para comprenderla.
S. Tominaga, también conocido como CSW
2 de marzo de 2025
https://x.com/CsTominaga/status/1896102803267068029?t=sjQGTCZCtXsS94VIDxmVOA&s=19
https://t.me/S_Tominaga/2623
La contradicción de los hombres que poseían esclavos mientras proclamaban la libertad no fue un fracaso de la historia, sino de su propio carácter. Sin embargo, su fracaso no mancha el principio que invocaban. La libertad no la definen quienes no la merecen; la definen quienes la reclaman mediante la acción, la lucha, la negativa a someterse.
El Dr. Samuel Johnson sólo vio la contradicción, pero no vio la verdad más profunda: que la grandeza de una idea no depende de la perfección de quienes la expresan primero. Los hombres que escribieron sobre la libertad pero no la extendieron a todos eran pequeños, pero el ideal que desataron no lo era. La culpa no estuvo en la Revolución en sí, sino en los hombres que buscaron tener ambas cosas. Y la historia no favorece a quienes dudan entre dos caminos. El ideal de la libertad no tuvo paciencia para sus compromisos; ardió hacia adelante, llevado no por quienes hablaron de él, sino por quienes lo vivieron.
Y entre quienes la vivieron estaban los hombres y mujeres que se negaron a ser propiedad de nadie. No fueron víctimas de la historia, ni figuras pasivas en alguna lucha predestinada, sino individuos que se adueñaron de su propio destino. Algunos huyeron a Gran Bretaña, reconociendo que su libertad no residía en promesas vacías, sino en la acción. Otros lucharon junto a los revolucionarios, sabiendo que una causa imperfecta por la libertad era, de todos modos, una causa que valía la pena perseguir. No esperaron a que la historia les concediera algo. Lo tomaron. El futuro pertenecía a quienes comprendían que la libertad no es un regalo ni un decreto, sino el derecho legítimo de todos los que tienen la fuerza para hacerla valer.
La Revolución no fue un cambio de poder entre grupos, fue una batalla por la soberanía del individuo. No fue la historia lo que la hizo así, ni la inevitabilidad, ni las fuerzas sociales, sino hombres que eligieron luchar por algo más grande que ellos mismos. Y aunque muchos de ellos vacilaron en sus propias convicciones, el ideal por el que lucharon no lo hizo. Ese ideal no era suyo para corromperlo. Fue, y sigue siendo, propiedad de aquellos lo suficientemente fuertes para defenderla, luchar por ella y reclamarla como propia. La Revolución no fue el triunfo de los hombres, fue el triunfo de la libertad sobre aquellos demasiado débiles para comprenderla.
S. Tominaga, también conocido como CSW
2 de marzo de 2025
https://x.com/CsTominaga/status/1896102803267068029?t=sjQGTCZCtXsS94VIDxmVOA&s=19
https://t.me/S_Tominaga/2623
X (formerly Twitter)
S Tominaga (@CsTominaga) on X
The American Revolution was not a tragedy of hypocrisy—it was the triumph of an idea too great to be diminished by the men who failed to live up to it.
The contradiction of men who owned slaves while proclaiming liberty was not a failure of history but of…
The contradiction of men who owned slaves while proclaiming liberty was not a failure of history but of…
S. Tominaga AKA CSW
Mar 4, 2025
https://x.com/CsTominaga/status/1896788104830484838?t=YJ77IBJ9Cb9rd5og4Boeeg&s=19
https://t.me/S_Tominaga/2630
Mar 4, 2025
https://x.com/CsTominaga/status/1896788104830484838?t=YJ77IBJ9Cb9rd5og4Boeeg&s=19
https://t.me/S_Tominaga/2630
The last few months have been far from ideal. I was on my motorcycle, moving at around 80 km/h, when a utility truck came out of nowhere. No time to react, no chance to brace—just the sudden, brutal impact of metal against flesh and bone. The next thing I knew, I was on the ground, my shoulder wrenched out of its socket, my AC joint torn to shreds with a grade 3 separation, and my knee completely dislocated. That doesn’t even cover the stitches, the bruising, and the rest of the damage that made even the most basic movements an exercise in pain.
Recovery hasn’t been quick. It won’t be quick. A full year, give or take, before things are back to where they were, before everything moves like it should, before I can even consider getting back to what I was doing at the pace I was doing it. And I’m not about to sabotage that process for anything—certainly not for legal battles that have no relevance to my future, and definitely not for things as fleeting as Twitter arguments.
Right now, my priority is healing, and that means getting everything else in order before I can afford to focus on anything else.
That said, I haven’t disappeared.
There’s a backlog of things to get through, far more important than social media, but I will be back soon, and when I am, I won’t be holding back. The posts will come in detail, as they always have, and there’s plenty to cover. For now, though, I deal with what’s in front of me.
The rest can wait.
S. Tominaga AKA CSW
Mar 4, 2025
https://x.com/CsTominaga/status/1896788104830484838?t=YJ77IBJ9Cb9rd5og4Boeeg&s=19
https://t.me/S_Tominaga/2630
Recovery hasn’t been quick. It won’t be quick. A full year, give or take, before things are back to where they were, before everything moves like it should, before I can even consider getting back to what I was doing at the pace I was doing it. And I’m not about to sabotage that process for anything—certainly not for legal battles that have no relevance to my future, and definitely not for things as fleeting as Twitter arguments.
Right now, my priority is healing, and that means getting everything else in order before I can afford to focus on anything else.
That said, I haven’t disappeared.
There’s a backlog of things to get through, far more important than social media, but I will be back soon, and when I am, I won’t be holding back. The posts will come in detail, as they always have, and there’s plenty to cover. For now, though, I deal with what’s in front of me.
The rest can wait.
S. Tominaga AKA CSW
Mar 4, 2025
https://x.com/CsTominaga/status/1896788104830484838?t=YJ77IBJ9Cb9rd5og4Boeeg&s=19
https://t.me/S_Tominaga/2630
🙏1
Los últimos meses han estado lejos de ser ideales. Iba en mi motocicleta, a unos 80 km/h, cuando un camión de servicios apareció de la nada. No tuve tiempo de reaccionar, ni de prepararme; solo sentí el repentino y brutal impacto del metal contra la carne y el hueso. Lo siguiente que supe fue que estaba en el suelo, con el hombro dislocado, la articulación acromioclavicular destrozada en pedazos con una separación de grado 3 y la rodilla completamente dislocada. Eso ni siquiera cubre los puntos de sutura, los hematomas y el resto del daño que hacía que incluso los movimientos más básicos fueran un ejercicio de dolor.
La recuperación no ha sido rápida. No lo será. Un año completo, más o menos, antes de que las cosas vuelvan a ser como antes, antes de que todo se mueva como debería, antes de que pueda siquiera considerar volver a lo que estaba haciendo al ritmo que lo estaba haciendo. Y no estoy dispuesto a sabotear ese proceso por nada, ciertamente no por batallas legales que no tienen relevancia para mi futuro, y definitivamente no por cosas tan fugaces como las discusiones en Twitter.
Ahora mismo, mi prioridad es curarme, y eso significa poner todo lo demás en orden antes de poder concentrarme en cualquier otra cosa.
Dicho esto, no he desaparecido.
Hay un montón de cosas pendientes que resolver, mucho más importantes que las redes sociales, pero volveré pronto y, cuando lo haga, no me contendré. Las publicaciones serán detalladas, como siempre, y hay mucho que cubrir. Por ahora, sin embargo, me ocupo de lo que tengo por delante.
El resto puede esperar.
S. Tominaga, también conocido como CSW
4 de marzo de 2025
https://x.com/CsTominaga/status/1896788104830484838?t=YJ77IBJ9Cb9rd5og4Boeeg&s=19
https://t.me/S_Tominaga/2630
La recuperación no ha sido rápida. No lo será. Un año completo, más o menos, antes de que las cosas vuelvan a ser como antes, antes de que todo se mueva como debería, antes de que pueda siquiera considerar volver a lo que estaba haciendo al ritmo que lo estaba haciendo. Y no estoy dispuesto a sabotear ese proceso por nada, ciertamente no por batallas legales que no tienen relevancia para mi futuro, y definitivamente no por cosas tan fugaces como las discusiones en Twitter.
Ahora mismo, mi prioridad es curarme, y eso significa poner todo lo demás en orden antes de poder concentrarme en cualquier otra cosa.
Dicho esto, no he desaparecido.
Hay un montón de cosas pendientes que resolver, mucho más importantes que las redes sociales, pero volveré pronto y, cuando lo haga, no me contendré. Las publicaciones serán detalladas, como siempre, y hay mucho que cubrir. Por ahora, sin embargo, me ocupo de lo que tengo por delante.
El resto puede esperar.
S. Tominaga, también conocido como CSW
4 de marzo de 2025
https://x.com/CsTominaga/status/1896788104830484838?t=YJ77IBJ9Cb9rd5og4Boeeg&s=19
https://t.me/S_Tominaga/2630
X (formerly Twitter)
S Tominaga (@CsTominaga) on X
The last few months have been far from ideal. I was on my motorcycle, moving at around 80 km/h, when a utility truck came out of nowhere. No time to react, no chance to brace—just the sudden, brutal impact of metal against flesh and bone. The next thing I…
S. Tominaga AKA CSW
Mar 4, 2025
https://x.com/CsTominaga/status/1896789710586163205?t=ZBefvDB881EP0paDBDPKvg&s=09
https://t.me/S_Tominaga/2630
Mar 4, 2025
https://x.com/CsTominaga/status/1896789710586163205?t=ZBefvDB881EP0paDBDPKvg&s=09
https://t.me/S_Tominaga/2630
🙏1
S. Tominaga AKA CSW
Mar 4, 2025
https://x.com/CsTominaga/status/1896792328356139210?t=IMDwtd92yubf7o6plMIkRA&s=19
https://t.me/S_Tominaga/2634
Mar 4, 2025
https://x.com/CsTominaga/status/1896792328356139210?t=IMDwtd92yubf7o6plMIkRA&s=19
https://t.me/S_Tominaga/2634