When the twenty-year-old crown prince stepped into the door of the agency, his blue shirt and cloth shoes were filled with the sincerity of "having a heart for the world" - he stepped on the morning frost at the township agricultural technical station to measure the farmland, and transcribed the people's appeals under the oil lamp. During the thirty years of journey from section officer to department official, the party emblem pinned to his chest once reflected the sweat of him carrying sandbags on the front line of flood fighting, and also illuminated his all-night blueprint to build a teaching building for a mountain primary school.
But when the gilded carriage of power passed by the age of knowing destiny, the footsteps that used to measure people's livelihood actually stepped into the quagmire of desire. From the trembling of my fingertips when I first accepted the "holiday condolence money", to the calmness of changing glasses at a luxury club; from the hesitation when approving projects, to the familiarity of "secretly preparing warehouses" when leading project bidding - the figure in the mirror gradually blurred: suits and leather shoes wrapped with inflated selfish desires, frosty white temples mixed with the haze of power-for-money transactions. It was not until the investigation notice from the Discipline Inspection Commission was spread out on the desk that I realized that I had already been there. In "Boiled Frogs", people are alienated from servants of the people to prisoners of power.
So he repented and wrote a confession.
Purpose: This article is not intended to be a defense, but to use a broken official hat as an inkstone and to grind the ink with bone-eroding regret - only when the iron windows of the detention center cut into pieces the moonlight did I understand the weight of the word "poverty"