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PostPosted: Thu Jul 14, 2005 9:13 am    Post subject: Rewrite Reply with quote


Seldom people have the opportunity to come up to the 166th floor of the tower. I am the first, perhaps. Here I am, high up on the tallest spire ever built, so high that I could be the next thing closest to heaven. Through the transparent glass walls that surround me, I looked down on the cityscape below me: the bustle during the day and sparkling lights at nightfall.
They say I’m the grandest person of all to be on the highest point of human architecture, but am I? I wasn’t here by any chance; I was hired. Hired to write.
Datelines are pushing me down to the lowest – a stressed writer just cannot write. Commercial writers all suffer from scrivener’s palsy due to the extravagant workloads, I dare say. Isolation never worked on me, for I missed the human presence that inspired me.
Day or night, I can’t tell the difference. I was lost in a world where time refused to show any significance. Time is running out, but then, there’s still time left. My mind fails to think, and I cannot compose.
In the view of the placid blue sky, I dazed into the memory of….

Midnight booze was never good, but peer pressure made me wash down hard liquor all the same. I took my leave near dawn striding queasily down the road, when rain poured out of a sudden. So I took shelter under a shade by an alley, squatting and waiting for the rain to clear. That’s when I heard….
Gunshots! Even the loudest raindrops couldn’t shield the bloodcurdling tingles. I peered over the edge only to see a silhouette of a man falling at gunpoint. Behind the gunman who pulled the trigger, stood a large figure whom I vaguely recognised – a notorious kingpin recently made politician out of the blue.
Then, with no will of resisting, I passed out.

I was a journalist, and my duty was to reveal the truth to my clients, the masses. The following day my bold article on the shooting hit the headlines! It caused such a furore that many people kept calling up the press to clarify the details. The moment our publication hit the millionth copy, suddenly they were recalled, on grounds of my false reporting under the influence of drugs. Concurrently, police officers came ransacking my workplace, and God knows why my drawer contained packets of designer drugs.
It doesn’t take a genius to guess that I ended up in prison. Mercilessly, I was stripped down to my underwear and thrown into a cold cell with few other detainees. Worse still, as if my presence was unwelcome, two thugs in the same cell jumped me and gave me a harsh beating, hurting me so much that I yelled till the wardens came to separate them to another cubicle.
It was painful. My naked body was badly bruised all over, and I couldn’t even stand. Other curious inmates came to sit by me, and one of them said, “You must be the reporter! I’ve heard people discussing about a big-time journalist incurring a the wrath of a very big figure.”
I was too shocked for words. The man continued to explain, “those men who walloped you – they aren’t prisoners, they’re hired by Big Doddy to beat you up. Big Doddy, do you hear? Cross him, and he’ll make you pay dearly. You journalists should sometimes shut up and mind your own business.”
As predicted, my acquittal from drug possession due to lack of evidence was premeditated. On my release, immediately a stranger came to pick me up and took me to Luxom Corp, the tallest building in the world. And he said coldly, “Mr. Doddy has been so kind to employ your service after what you’ve done. But if you’re not careful….”

So here I am, on top of Luxom Corp as an employee of Big Doddy. My main job now is to be his personal biographer for his next election campaign, just round the corner. A book of hymns, as I see it – the pages will sing praises, the texts will honour him as the magnanimous Lord.
It wouldn’t be too difficult a task to put all the words together, for me it would just take several hours. But after 50 odd pages, it starts to get sickening. I couldn’t bear to read what I have written, because there’s not a single truth inside it. Full of lies. My hand is writing it, but not my heart. After all those crimes he committed, how could I aggrandise him as a consecrated philanthropist? If I write more, I’ll be losing myself completely.
This kind of false testament has been practised from the past to present: we see how historians portray history at their own perceptions and discriminations, how they play down wartime atrocities in favour of political gains. How the antagonist turns into the protagonist, how evil becomes the source of belief for ignorant, dense people. But I’m a man of principles, how can I put up with such felony? The fact that I am helping the crooks to commit crime, I cannot accept. If I mislead the people, the world will soon perish in the loom of evil; life will be miserable, humans will fall.
But who am I to dictate what should be done and what shouldn’t be? I’m just a commoner, and I don’t possess the proviso to go my own way…. I’m the controlled; I only express the thoughts, the ideals of others. However still, I can’t betray one thing left in me – my conscience.
I’m tired. Depressed.
I could’ve coerced myself to, but the writer’s cramp prevented me from going on. It’s a natural rebuttal system – that the more perjury I commit, the more is the withdrawal. I cannot possibly deny myself – everything I wrote is part of me, a representation of my thoughts and personality. How could I, a man of principles, turn back on my own morality? Should I falsify even my own existence? Am I just some machine being operated at the whims and fancy of others?
These thoughts, kept in my rational for so long a time, now revealed on my decision. The blinking cursor before me doesn’t matter at all – as I reach out for the backspace, one by one the words are nullified, erasing the whole sentence; the whole paragraph; the whole page; the whole document….
I shall, with all my will, rewrite.

Wanting to spit out the jarred thoughts is
Because there's no other proof of my existence
My future that I should've grabbed hold is
Conflicting between "dignity" and "freedom"
Wanting to erase the distorted afterimage is
Because I'll see my limit over there
In the window of the excessively self-conscious me
There are no epochs in last year's calendar

After cutting my feelings that grew, I regret
After realizing that after all, I'm just a mediocrity, I cry
A depressed heart
A dirty lie

Erase and rewrite
The pointless ultra-fantasy
The unforgettable sense of being
The meaningless imagination
The driving force that creates you
Give it your whole body and soul

~Gotou Masafumi~

Written by K.O.J.A.
Credits to 4th OP Full Metal Alchemist, {RIRAITO}
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