[[OOC Note: This is a sort of...journal, if you will. Written by Edgeworth of the Paradisa-verse, it contains some of his innermost thoughts, wangstings, bitchings, frustrations, sentence fragments, pet-worshipping, daddy-issues - you know, the type of things he'd generally guard behind a maximum security prison. It is small and unassuming, and it is generally kept in the nightstand beside his bed, or under his pillow (if he happens to fall asleep with it).
On a rare occasion, it may be encountered by another character if they happen to visit his room and nose about in his belongings... But that has yet to happen (hopefully). Knowing that it finding itself in the wrong hands remains a possibility, the entries alternate between English and German.]]
My being here has found me in a paper-thin balance of being simultaneously unnerved and markedly relieved. Here, I am no longer strangulated by the societal taboos that pervaded my own world, and my actions are no longer under constant media scrutiny. I am relatively nameless (and positively restless). No more rumours of 'forged evidence' and 'underhanded tactics.' Psychoanalysts no longer nit-pick my choice of dress, discuss my mannerisms, debate my sexuality (or lack of, as I've heard a few argue. It would be my fondest wish if it were entirely so), or examine the minuscule speck of dust on my shoulder. I may have changed, yes, but it does not change the fact that as long as I live, I will always overhear the occasional, "Isn't that the, 'Demon Prosecutor?'" "Isn't he that guy who shot the man on the boat?" Thankfully, I haven't heard, "Isn't that the kid from the Elevator Case?'" in quite the while. I once believed it all the easier to simply play upon many of these execrable misconceptions. Instead, it has since been a constant, internal struggle of alternating between the image of the demonic attorney and the demon of defiance in which, either way, I must attempt to appease some inner demon vying for dominance. I continue to feel my sense of self chip away mercilessly the more I attempt to mute either voice, while employing a facade of fatuous joviality. The quietude is surreal, and quite ironically, given that I am in full acknowledgement that at any time here at Paradisa I am liable to being transformed into a goat, I am far more relaxed, if not painfully bored. Surely, I'll come across the occasional talking horse, literal demon, or a seemingly 'normal' human being who claims they're capable of feats of magic, yet claim to have never heard of a tiger. One would do well to never to underestimate the sheer vastness of the universe.
Once more, I am presented with an unsympathetic profusion of blatant and illogical fallacies. Even as I am here, I am still meandering my way through the daunting experiment of reinventing myself as the 'Good Prosecutor,' or perhaps, the 'Moral Prosecutor.' What defines the (I must admit, quite possibly oxymoronic) 'Moral Prosecutor'? Is it to abandon the path of perfection and devote ourselves to the pursuit of truth of which we must toil in obscurity to unearth? It is widely known that our jobs are to convict, not execute what is 'fair' or 'balanced.' Yet, we cannot define 'truth' with boundaries any more than we can truly legislate morality. "Rules are of strict application," no longer apply here nor there. I hear his voice as clearly as if he were over my shoulder, breathing unforgivingly down my back as I record his words. Even now, I find myself attempting to 'translate' Von Karma's tactics and 'refurbish' them to suit my new path. Even now, the threads of his influence remain tightly, and possibly permanently, interwoven in the fabric of my psyche. Old habits die hard, indeed.
Today was relatively unproductive. But, at least I can say that I somehow managed to accomplish fitting the terms, 'Manfred Von Karma,' and 'morality' in the same page.
"The law is not justice. It's a very imperfect mechanism. If you press exactly the right buttons and are also lucky, justice may show up in the answer. A mechanism is all the law was ever intended to be."
"Justice has nothing to do with victor nations and vanquished nations, but must be a moral standard that all the world's peoples can agree to. To seek this and to achieve it - that is true civilization." (Steel Samurai, Season 2, Episode 11)
Once in a while, I'll encounter in the series such little nuggets of sagacity. It is no wonder I find comfort in such frivolities, portraying an idyllic world of justice one would seldom encounter in the three-dimensional world.
I revered Manfred Von Karma as a god. It was whatever semblance of the remaining respect and the capacity for admiration I could have ever had for someone, fatally ravaged by the most passionate animosity for the very same man. After that, I have felt that I could not longer wholly place trust in anyone - not even myself. Especially myself. Yet, I cannot help myself from wishing that I could seek his advice, or even worse, his approval. Once again, it is astonishing how old habits die hard. I cannot help but wonder if this place has expunged memories of not only my biological father, but others who may have been intimately involved in my life, as well. There are obvious holes in my memory. They appear as moments of white blanks. I have vague recollections of Manfred uttering such statements as, "both Miles and --------- received the highest honours in their forms," whereas the name of the other person is seemingly censored in my mind's eye as if it were some sort of ghastly, profane word. Since I am quite certain that Manfred was not referring to "Miles and a Sack of Cat Shit," (and, if the castle were truly concerned with filtering the profane from my memory, it would need only to do away with my memories in their entirety), I can perhaps safely infer that a child, other than myself, existed in the Von Karma household.
Exemplary logic, if I do say so myself.
I remember a dining table set for three on those rare occasions, and school records distinct from my own suggesting the existence of another child in the household. And, how soon I forget those rousing debates around that very dining table! Manfred spared no time in acclimating me to the Von Karma household, and such was one of his earliest attempts. For our sakes, it was presented as a game. Manfred would would pitch to us (us?) summaries of real cases from long ago, posing the questions, sometimes inviting fellow prosecutors to dine with us and engage us in this 'game'. We would discuss the circumstances and make our educated guesses on the outcome of the trial. Was the ruling 'for'? Was it 'against'? He would withhold the verdict until we were stubbornly bent on our convictions. As I write this, the 'our's, and the 'us' do not escape my notice. But who, really? Manfred's only daughter, to my knowledge, had long since married and left. Had he adopted another apprentice other than myself?
Furthermore, I looked through various notes on the system in which I heavily reference the DL-6 incident. For the life of me, I cannot recall the victim of the DL-6 incident.
Was mich nicht umbringt macht mich stärker.
-- Friedrich Nietzsche
Veritas has been my saving grace ever since I've arrived. As usual, I find the companionship of an animal to be more enjoyable than that of humans (or demons, or angels, or trolls, or whatever nonsense). On top of this, I've been engaging myself in various endeavors, none of which I could deign to find psychologically fulfilling or intellectually fruitful. I'd rather avoid meddling with the residents for the most part (Then again, what surprise is there when I'd generally prefer to avoid most people altogether?). I suppose I am mentally arrested by the immense trepidation of what could be lost prior to it being. I fear that I haven't the fortitude to face another loss. Then again, how ironic of me to have continuously invest whatever left of my affection into something with a considerably shorter lifespan... Once again, I must remind myself to never become excessively attached.
Convictions are more dangerous foes of truth than lies.
The law assumes that truth emerges from the clash of adversaries in the courtroom. The law assumes that: Uneven skills of counsel do not exist; bias doesn't influence the decision-maker; evidence can be clearly presented. . . .Right and morality are irrelevant. Personal convictions are irrelevant. Only "truth" produced through trial is relevant. "Truth" for the law is a legal construct which relates to facts as they emerge at trial. "Truth" does not necessarily coincide with reality.
My thoughts are in all directions at once. I find it excessively difficult to contain them. Simply concentrating has become a chore, nowadays. I find myself increasingly unable to gather my thoughts (so much so, apparently, that I am being unnecessarily redundant). I am uncharacteristically, easily distracted, my own ruminations cruelly assaulted by even the subtlest of cochlear vibrations. Distorted and fractured shards of cogitation float about like needless debris of cognitive ash scattered upon murky rivers of consciousness. More and more, I and beleaguered by volatile and fragmented memories of simultaneous chaos and nothingness. I am confused. I am restless. I am depressed. I am not entirely convinced that this is all not an elaborate dream. I am not entirely convinced that I have not gone completely insane, or that I am not dreaming within a frighteningly lucid dream. I am- [A few small dots follow as he taps his pen to the paper, then comes a chaotic mess of violent and frustrated scribbles.]
Wright. I have absolutely nothing, and everything, to admire of the man. It's almost morbidly amusing to think that not too long ago, I abhorred the man. I was obsessively Hell-bent on destroying him as he had done me. When presented the opportunity to face him in court a second time, I took the case, perhaps to derive an almost carnal satisfaction from the idea of defeating him in court, thereby quelling his perfect record as he had done mine. It was after then when I realized myself to be a shining example of moral and ethical leprosy. Surely I must have put my own actions to scrutiny even then. What, exactly, was the catalyst? The mere devastation to the perfect record I had single-mindedly strived to maintain? Would I have reacted differently if it were someone other than Wright who had handed me my first defeat? I strive to seek the reason his intervention affected me the way it did.
I oftentimes liken our friendship to that of a fatal train wreck. Repulsive to look at, but difficult to turn away. I find myself simultaneously in awe of his optimism and frustrated by his oftentimes puerile nature, so much that many a time I wish to wring each ounce of fatuity out that head of his. The man normally has the cognitive resources of a cabbage, and yet, there are those rare instances - shocking displays of shrewdness that never fail to catch me off-guard. Otherwise, however, his insouciance for the finer things often serve as a great disconnect between us. I cannot fathom why, in this face of nearly limitless abundance, he would choose to discredit greater comfort. His methods of reasoning (or lack thereof) constantly a frustrating irreducible complexity that makes me wonder if he has ever given thought to question his own conjecture. He would do extremely well to do so. In truth, I worry for him in this respect, as if he blindly persists in hanging upon the waning threads of irreparable and illogically-founded convictions, he may find himself in a similar situation as in the case of Matt Engarde.
Larry has arrived. I should hope that they find solace in each other's company.
I wonder if I only allow myself to acknowledge the fact that he is my 'best friend' as a sort of amiable relativity. A 'best friend,' even though I detest the term and the commitment implied therein, as he is indeed the 'best' friend out of the my limited pool of acquaintances at the moment. By the by, I wonder if my concern for his well-being stemmed from the feeling of indebtedness brought upon the desire to quell the throes of guilt for being responsible for his fall. Ever since finding ourselves stuck here, he progressively proves himself to be even more relentless, stubborn, and uncommonly attached to me. Maya seems to have built a solid life here independently of him, and as a result, their communication seems to have faltered considerably. He misses her greatly, this is indisputable, but I cannot help but wonder if he is transferring to me his need for companionship brought upon by Maya's absence.
He made a strikingly odd 'promise' to me a few days ago. I believe it was something along the lines of, "give me the chance to make you happy," followed by, "I know I can do it."...'Make' me happy? And how does he plan to go about that? And why? The curiosity overpowers the actual desire to pursue this, 'happiness.' I am somewhat amused by the audacious assumption that he is capable of steering me to happiness. What nonsense. I do not see how anyone can be truly, and consistently, happy. Nonetheless, I'd rather keep my contact with him minimal for the aforementioned reasons, as I attempt to prevent the chance of any such attachment, and the particularly pernicious influence of any such sentiments riddled with the risk of pain. However, it does appear that the more I aim to do so, the more I see of him. He then, with his usual, idealistic nonsense, tried to convince me about existence of 'Love at First Sight,' or how I'd put it, 'Euphemized lust.' It is naught but the highly-esteemed objectification of another human being. The primary attraction is confused to be some sort of mystical, supernatural connection, or some idiocy. It is not until they have descended from their dopamine high that they realize that the person was truly not according to the overly-aggrandized image that they had prefabricated while engulfed in the unmitigated desire to quell the fire in their loins. I simply just do not see how it is feasible to truly love someone you know nothing about. Since he offers no argument in favour of his assertion, (nor does he, come to think of it, tend to come up with any rational arguments in favour of his assertions) the more it comes across as breathtaking inanity. Why did my mind run on this all of a sudden?
For him to choose possibly one of the most psychologically harrowing professions, throw himself into a world teeming with corruption and yet, remain so easily affected, I worry for him. And, despite our differences, I appreciate him.
[Page 26 - Written entirely in German]
"It it obvious you two are attracted to each other."
I find myself unable to rationalize it, but the profound awareness brought about by that one phrase - that one, little misconception - is nigglingly constant. Time and time again, I find myself positively tormented with lustful thoughts of him. The nature of his innocent affection at times inspires within me such an impassioned ardour that I find myself responding with playful gestures of my own riddled with ulterior motives. I would continuously excuse my flirtatious taunting, but over time, even I, myself, could not prove my own intentions unsullied. It did not take me long to realize my own actions as abject, and though initially unconscious of the fact, I have been attempting to wrest upon any hint of suppressed desire that I could possibly find, milk out any drop of opportunity to seduce a man that, when not inebriated, would otherwise be unwilling. It is not until I am met with backlash that I come to my senses and remember that this is Phoenix Wright - my adversary, my polar opposite, and my friend - my heterosexual friend.
It may not have been beneath me before, but far be it from me now to take advantage of a young, sexually-starved man. I find myself having to exercise great restraint each time he draws close. Faced with temptation, I thought it best to remove myself entirely from his presence without warning until the passage of time quells my demonic desires. If my endeavours were to prove successful, I fear he may wallow in regret for having debased himself to having slept with another man. On the other hand, given the circumstances, I cannot completely discredit Geoff's words. Could it be possible? Oftentimes, if intellectual prowess were to be measured by the depths of the ocean, Wright would be a mud-puddle. I cannot say I'd be entirely surprised if he was daft enough to overlook his own sexuality after a quarter of a century. Even if so, if what Geoffrey says is true, it is up to Wright to figure it for himself.
I'd prefer to stick to my confirmation biases and continue to doubt it, in any case.
Among the very few things I value above all, other than the pursuit of truth, is my solitude. More and more, I realize that I am not quite fit for needless social interaction. I do not have the patience, desire, confidence - nor could I ever hope to acquire any. My enemies far outweigh my friends, even now. My public image is tarnished beyond hope of redemption. The word, 'prosecutor' alone carries with it a chilling connotation for many. Add 'Miles Edgeworth' to this, and the term becomes considerably more frightening for others. I don't mind. 'Callous,' 'ruthless,' 'unfeeling,' I have heard such things attributed to me many times. I could do no more than to feed into until I am sufficiently able to delude myself that I am such a person. If it brings me greater comfort to do so, then perhaps it is no longer delusion. Then again, I am plagued with an irritating conscience that contradicts the 'ruthless' bit. Perhaps I should stay away from the castle a bit longer than originally intended. Perhaps indefinitely.
The truest, and most effective way to mitigate the chance of pain is to sever attachment. And yet, in a roundabout way, pain is a harbinger of apathy.
[Page 30 - Written in German]
The overabundance of kindness is bothersome. The niceties continue to catch me off-guard. He is a simultaneously comforting, and loathsome, godsend. An abhorrent blessing. I find myself constantly in a state of inexplicably palliative discomfiture, and those instances prove themselves to be niggling reminders of my abominable virility. Wasteful. Simply wasteful. I would be far better off if I were asexual, after all. Are fleeting moments of mirth worth the frustration? Am I selfish to be contemptuous of kindness, simply because I cannot derive the specific indulgence from it that I want? I've made my mind. In a squalid attempt to salvage whatever remains of my sanity, I see it necessary to commit the ultimate act of selfishness and pull that, 'infamous disappearing act,' as Gumshoe once referred to it.
Felix can be quite uncharacteristically crude for a nobleman, not that I have any qualms with it. In an odd way, it's rather refreshing. Perhaps I should indulge a little, as he suggests. I am no longer under the watchful eyes of hundreds. I have the freedom to act with far less consequence. I did not tell him of my past exploits, even though, given our last conversation, he perhaps would not have minded. They were all born from the same, similarly avoidant purpose. Ultimately, I ended up incurring the very same attachment I had originally intended to evade. The risk of doing so again is my only hesitation.
Perhaps it won't be necessary this time around.
...A gift among gifts.
For future reference.
The Moral Landscape, by Sam Harris
The Blind Watchmaker, by Richard Dawkins
Flim-Flam!: Psychics, ESP, Unicorns, and Other Delusions, by James Randi
Surviving the Extremes: What Happens to the Human Body at the Limits of Human Endurance by Kenneth Kamler
A Short History of Nearly Everything by Bill Bryson