I am Changan.
I am not a pile of bricks or a symbol on a map. I have lived - breathed under the crown of the emperors of the thirteen dynasties, drunk in the wine cup of the poet, trembled among the bloody blades of the garrison, and awakened in the camel bells of the business travelers.
My memory is like layers of remains: the bells of the Zhou Dynasty were buried under the rammed earth of the Qin Dynasty, and the tiles of the Han Palace pressed against the foundation stone of the Tang Palace. After every fire, the ashes become my new skin; every time I rebuild, the old soul possesses the new bones. I have seen the dazzling attire and crowns of all nations in the prosperous age of Kaiyuan, and I also remember the crackling sound of the iron hoofs of the Anshi rebels crushing the colorful clothes and feathers. I am the 150-meter-wide majestic atmosphere of Zhuque Street, and I am also the bloody smell that has persisted for thousands of years in the brick cracks of Xuanwu Gate.
Now, when the subway tunnels pierce my sleeping veins, and when tourists' lenses pass over the mottled sunset on the Ming city wall – those overlapping years begin to tremble and revive. I'm going to speak. With the Wei River as the vein, Zhongnan Mountain as the ridge, and the stars of the Thirteen Dynasties as the eyes, it tells the secrets that have not been recorded in history: the conspiracy heard on the foundation stone of Weiyang Palace, the farewell witnessed by the bronze bell of the Big Wild Goose Pagoda, the trembling hands of the Hu merchants in the West City when they buried the silver coins, and the sighs of generations of craftsmen as they forged the rise and fall of the dynasty into every brick of my city.
This is not the history of a city. This is an autobiography written in the city.
Open me and you will hear the heartbeat coming from the depths of the land and spanning thousands of years. You will see - all dynasties have turned into dust, only Chang'an is eternally reborn in memory.
