It has been a serious damage to my heart since my grandfather together with all my family view unfavorably my ability and promise of writing English. For so long a time I didn’t feel like writing any more, owing to the horrible reality that I was so desperately incapable, and my illness is also going on a tremendously bad way. There are some things that can be practised so as to progress, but the talent to write can only be talent instead of procured actual strength. However, a little change is taking place for the present—I even start to write now!

I at first thought that building vocabulary was above every other effort, in consideration that it constructs and furnishes a writing, so I was for a certain period of time wandering from word books to even dictionaries. Yet I wasted so much energy making unwise attempts on adding study plans, ending up with one and another anticlimaxes. Of course I want to put all the blame on my bipolar, in which I have up and down whiles and can’t be steady; but now I turn to be aware that I don’t have good patience and confidence, for the former I recite new words and the latter write good essays.

A proud man is not surely the strongest; there are many reasons for him to be living in a drum. I used to be one like that, and now I’ve been cruelly beaten to be awake. Nor can a strong man be taken by timidity and frustration, especially when he was proud, and then the pride is struck down and likely extinguished.