Fake Kia Comp

username on CS:
.chamomile.

identity of protagonist:
Antioch; he has no last or middle name and often goes by An (pronounced (Ah-n)

story:
Its quiet. Then again, its always quiet here, late at night with the weak city lights glaring at me through the window. Here? Here is the office, a office. One of many that reside in Tokyo; a towering structure of metal and glass that does nothing but litter the skyline with more shapes. Oh, shapes, how poetic of me. Its too late for this, to be describing the edges of civilization that block the land like a man made mountain. I suppose my work has gotten to me again. It always does this to me, sneaking its way into my head late at night when all I want is to sleep.

My job? An editor. I edit literature, I tell stories through type font and cover art, small illustrations that litter the margins, chapter titles that scream mystery into the night. Page numbers in the corner that people flip by without a hesitation as they hunger for words, for knowledge. For power.

That was a lie.

I don't edit literature, not anymore. Not ever, maybe. I've become a poet of lies, extravagant words that fly out of my mouth on winged creatures that would put the devil to shame. No, no. My life is not that dramatic, it never was, nor will it ever be. To myself, I am a shell. Devoid of sustenance, of whatever small flicker of light that keeps the living, living. To myself, I am infinite. I am the universe, full of everything but knowing nothing. To myself, I am a drone. A worker in a society too big for my ego, a pawn in the hands of some unknown power. To myself, I must be something.

But to others, I am something. I am a worker, someone who edits-- who edits what? I edit the why. The questions everyone on the planet is asking. The what. The how. The when and the where. I wish my job was as glorious as I imagine it to be.

No, no.

I'm stuck here in Tokyo, stuck by my skill as an editor. Of what? Of manga. How arcane this job is, what mysteries does it hold? What knowledge am I supposed to gain from it? None. Other than the evasiveness of deadlines, the smudged ink on my fingers, screen tone floating up in the bathtub, breakfast in the morning; success, pure success. To edit manga is to be dead. To draw manga is to be dead. To print manga is to be dead. But, in the end, there is success. But, in the end, is this a dead end job?

I wonder, sometimes, occasionally, never. I wonder, is there someone out there who wants my job more than I? I want the job of a literary editor. Want. Such a basic emotion. Society runs on want. Someone wants my job. People want my book. I want to go home.
I've had enough of this! Sitting here, being lost in my thoughts. Thinking never did anyone good, it was always acting. But then, why think before you act? There, again. Thinking, again. Its time for me to leave. The paper in front of me is soft, like feathers. Like the stray hairs tickling my face. I want to sneeze.

Outside, weak city lights glare at me, and I glare back. How dare they look at me? Seeing me like this, like a mess. A disaster that has already happened ten years too early.

Oh, the irony. That might be my favorite phrase. Oh, the irony. Of what? It takes knowledge to understand irony and knowledge is tricky. Or is it trickery?

There I go again. Thinking in my head. I would like to think in someone else's head for a change. I want to be outside.

Outside is where the wind whispers your name, where the leaves sing in the trees, always different colors. Where snowflakes can fall on your nose and make you feel warm. Inside is where I'm stuck, and its full of sighs. I sigh. I have too much work to do.

I sit in front of inked pages with inked words. These words are art, the Japanese call it kanji. My name can't be written in kanji. My name is not art.

Antioch. That is my name. I say it is my name because that is the truth, I decided on it myself. I used to be James, that was my parents name for me. When I left my home country, I left myself behind. That's why I'm a shell now. I am creating a new me. A new person, a new soul. But right now, I am a shell.

Darkness shrouds my eyes. A figure stands before me, tall, looming. Is it my superior, come to demand of me the impossible? No. I have almost fallen asleep, my eyes closed on me. Like the door to my dreams. How corny, I don't like cliche phrases. Perhaps it was my past, come to haunt me. Ebenezer Scrooge. How corny. Old.

Why is it that office chairs are uncomfortable? The soft leather becomes worn and chipped, the filling flat and dull. They are rusty cars sitting in wheat fields, surrounded by soft daisies and gnats. I must confront the truth: these chairs will never be comfortable. I will forever be plagued with back aches and neck aches and ear aches and head aches. My mind aches.

I must confront the truth.

What do I want to be? Be who you want to be. Cliché. Old. I don't want to exist once, to just be alive, to just breathe. But, I don't want to edit manga either. Want. Why must society want? I am a second of the universe. Which is to say, insignificant.

Oh, well. A pause. I'm stuck anyways. My shell is a poet. My shell is mystery, anxiety, ephemeral, regretful, grateful. Lies.

I, am a poet of lies. A poet of life.

But I, I am Antioch. No kanji. No art.

Me; the pause between the seconds, the line that shouldn't be crossed.

Me.

word count: (1000/1000 w)