Sometimes I wonder, what on earth is history?
Is it a heavy rut? The top has long been covered with thick dust, obscuring the delicate but extremely important marks left by the wheels; is it a piece of tangled roots? It has been carved and whitewashed by all kinds of people, losing those natural mustaches and becoming a submissive root carving, weakly showing the look that people want to see; is it a stunningly beautiful woman with unparalleled splendor? But she allowed people to smear and draw on her face arbitrarily, covering up her pure and delicate appearance.
Later, I gradually realized that history is not serious, and it never has been. The history written on paper is no different from the stories written by literati and the lyrics uttered by actors. They are all the same absurdity, the same teasing, and the same frivolity.
So, I began to learn to pick up colorful colors and carefully draw on that face that had never been bare-faced, and in my opinion, it looked beautiful. History has always been just a little girl who can be dressed up by others, and all I can do is dress her up to suit my taste, but it cannot change the fact that she has been reduced to prostitution all her life.
Is this sad? Or, it is a kind of numb logic that has long been used to it.
The bitterness and sweetness, fear and love, the gentle smile and the flowing eyes of the past have been lost in the vast sea of hearts for thousands of years and can never be found again.