When the righteous people came one after another, and the chronology of birth and death, I found that they were a group of post-70s and post-80s in the 19th century.
Before they fell, they were rich men, rich second generation, grass stage opera troupe owners, coachmen, refugees, gamblers, hawkers, wage earners, and beggars. roaming the streets, all living beings. They ushered in a new turbulent century in their life course. Then they were swept up in the torrent of history, lost their homes, displaced, and then one day they collectively died heroically.
The cruelty of the revolution is that too much youth becomes a sacrifice. Too young, the blood is fresh, bright red, and hot.
In the dark theater, I gradually smelled the smell of sweat and blood, mixed with the dust and fireworks of an old city. Like a chaotic old wine, the altar suddenly opened, choking his nose. Strong flavors are aggressive and take over the environment in which they are released.
I felt like I was sitting in the air of bloody chaos. Then swallowed, two lines of salty and bitter tears.
Half for the common people and half for the beauty.
Because he died in the name of Doctrine, and Doctrine finally triumphed. Their deaths, one hundred years later, can be summed up as bloody struggles and heroic sacrifices.
But the real life actually stops after a breath—the length of life is between a breath and a breath. Without one, it's gone.
Those who died in the 70s and 80s died for the sake of changing their past, like the gambler Chongyang; they died for the wrong love, like the beggar Liu; they died for the savior who gave their lives, Such as Ah Si; or those who died to avenge their father, such as Fang Hong; those who died in order to rectify the name of the teacher, such as Wang Fuming of stinky tofu... There are so many holding rice bags, pulling carts, letting the wind on the roof, An anonymous person who runs along the way. No, they won't be nameless, they're just nameless in the story. They are just unknown outside the history of amnesia that has not been passed down.
All life must have a name. Even if it was just their mother who called them by their baby names.
Half for the common people and half for the beauty. It's home country.
In fact, all beliefs are like this. Does the concubine who entered the wealthy family for her daughter have great maternal love? A gambler who has a sense of honor for the child one day can be a father, is it fatherly love and love when he sacrifices his life? For an ambiguous wrong love, wandering the streets, tangled and degenerate, and finally with a heroic bloody battle to cut off the unbearable beggar, smiling in the illusion of a teardrop of his lover, is what he gave up and what he got? There are also Shaolin disciples who are not successful and youthful rebellious women who have fallen behind. Is their reason for giving up their lives is ism?
And that trembling stand-in, he chose faith because of his youth. Because that belief is young enough. On the way of knowing that he was going to die, his sweat, his tears, and his incomparably real fear belonged to this sixteen-year-old boy himself.
They do not know the true meaning and tragic nature of the "revolution". Those teenagers who throw their heads and shed their blood.
A good story is the truth that tells us that all life must survive the belief that we will persist in the generosity of dying.
And faith, can be common people, of course. Can also be beautiful. It must be possible. Just so that the family can ride the car, or to marry the beautiful girl behind the window tomorrow.
Faith, half for the common people, half for the beauty.
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