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政治PolitiKa

*英文
*比较虐
*就是自己存个档

Politiká

As far as History knew, she was once a dreamer like everyone else, and now she has grown out of the dream, like everyone else eventually did. But in her own memories, she had come, quite literally, from heaven, where she’d been an angle at God’s feet.
She had come down, to free mankind from their suffering.
History, of course, believes not a word of the sentence above.
Correction, she had come down from heaven, to see if there was a possibility of enforcing some sort of order on man. Whether the original intention was for man to govern themselves and help one another and live happily ever after, or for her to be recognized as a god for ‘ending their suffering’, is unknown. But we can suppose that she had a bit of each. To rule, to save, to be praised as a savior, and to be remembered was what she wished.
However, the task was not as easy as predicted. For even in the simplest logics of mankind there are dark corners which lie in waiting and out of sight, each a trap for the kind soul.
But of course, civilization had not formed any logic when she arrived on earth, so the reader may safely assume the above to be a delusional sentence formed out of an over-excited mind.
The real reason of her fall, as is with every dreamer, was that she had over simplified the situation.
I will not go on about the historical details of how she fell, for that is not the focus of today’s narrative. The focus comes a little nearer to now. To present day.
To make a long story short, she never returned.
She was changed by humans just as the Earth had been. She was changed and changed until the day came when heaven could no longer accept her. She was trapped on Earth.
I believe it will be important to relate, in the following paragraph, the appearances of such angelic creatures. For they are beautiful, you see, but not with an unnatural beauty. As for Politika, her hair was not white, her eyes were not blue or red or golden, her skin was not pale, no, she did not look like a corpse with wings. And she did not think a white cloth counted as fashionable wear. Surely, it would bore his magnificence the Creator if all angels looked the same. In truth, she had a slightly yellow shade of skin, but healthy, and her cheeks were quite red. Her hair was brown, and long, and curly, and she wore whatever she wanted. The two things you did get right are her wings: they are white, pure white, with white feathers.
They took her wings, and they covered her up in black ink. Then they poured blood all over her, and they waited until she was unrecognizable, the they covered her entire body with white dust, until her skin was so pale it shone. Then, they fried her hair straight, cut it to a perfectly straight line at the shoulder, dyed every strand of it white, and that was that.
History insists that she was born that way, with white hair, gray eyes, pale skin like a walking corpse. But of course, History never believed the ‘come down from heaven’ theory either.
And that is how she remained in appearance up to this very day. It is said that every night she powders her skin and dyes her hair for fear that the ink and blood would show, and every month she cuts her hair to the same, exact, straight line.
Overall, she has not led a disappointing history. In her youth she teamed up with Religion and Philosophy to impliment her ‘order’. Then, when Religion broke down she took up lead position and began to ignore Philosophy’s questions. In this process, she was constantly changing, constantly learning and growing too. Overall, a great many wars but no big disappointments.
To her, however, everything was disappointing.
It is very important to note that all of them grew up in likewise fashion, from dreamer to realist. Yet she remains the most sensitive and solemn out of all her fellow subjects. Never laughing or smiling easily, never doing without purpose written in mind, never walking slowly, never seen with her head down.
It is true that History has seen a lot, yes. Yet laughs, sometimes too much, she jokes, she does numerous pointless things, and she makes you wonder how a person can be so outwardly hopeful and so inertly hopeless at the same time.
It is true that Religion had seen a lot. Yet she gets tired occasionally and shows it. She is humorous in her own way, quite easy to talk to on most days, and above all, she is kind.
It is true that Sociology has seen a lot. Yet she is the most easy-going and social of them all. She smokes, she drinks, she gossips. She can dance just as Art can and sing maybe even better. She does not care to hide her emotions, but she is rarely serious about anything.
Politics is different. She is always grave, and purposeful, and devious. One never knows what is on her mind, for she will never say what she truly means. One cannot unhinge her ground by joking around with her, or even by logical reasoning. She is too solid in her own logic. Sometimes, it seems that she cares too much about too little. Yet one cannot make fun of her either, for she is too powerful. One can never trust the words from her mouth, even if one had been acquainted with her for thousands of years, and one can never trust the emotions that seem to appear on her face. If it helps with your conscious, you can pretend, for the sake of things, that she is kind, and that she really did come down from heaven, and that all her faults are cast onto her by man. She is, after all, in a way, man’s creation.
Sociology, the only person who is capable of making fun of Politics and getting away with it, has summed up the features of her face in one sentence of a song: “这是最后的斗争，团结起来到明天。”
You can how terrible and shocking it is to see such a face cry.
This is a story about when she cried.
 
It was after the end of the Second World War, everyone who was dead was dead. Heaven received their souls. It’s funny that some of us spend our whole lives worrying about where we will go, yet assume immediately when a huge disaster happens that all the dead go to heaven. But who am I to criticize. I have just wished the same.
Biology, Physics, Chemistry and some of the other natural sciences had stood around with their head in their hands talking about how everything was their fault. It was no bluff, all of them were sincere. In fact, it got so bad that they went as far as to consider if what Religion thought about them was true, and then Religion had to step out and say that (s)he didn’t think such things about them. All this time, the Social Sciences listened in silence and repeated in their hearts that it was everybody’s fault.
But out of them, one person alone thought it was all her own fault.
Yes, you have guessed it.
She tried at first. Tried to comfort the sciences. Because she was feeling unbearably guilty.
Sure, she had seen wars before, but this one…
She tried her best at wording her thoughts. When that failed, she gave up and spoke the truth.
“It’s my fault, seriously. But it’s alright, I’ll find a way to deal with it. I will fix this. I will. Don’t worry, and don’t feel pressure or anything. Just carry on with your research and studies. We’ll work this out.”
She even managed a smile.
History is not sure whether the sciences were convinced, but the truth was that they left the room at that moment. And the truth was that the moment they left, Politics hung her head, and wept.
Her tears fell in silence. A terrible, terrible silence as everyone around her stared. And for a moment, History believed the story about her coming down from heaven. In fact, she could almost see the black ink and red blood underneath her tear tracks, screaming out of the white powder of her pale skin.
But a second later, it was gone. Her face was dry and calm as a sheet of paper. Emotionless. Maybe a little grave. A face for mourning, not a face of heartbreak.
“I’ll deal with this.” Was all she said.
Then, Sociology produced a bottle of wine and they promptly proceeded to get themselves quite drunk.
那天晚上，她失眠了。
She wandered outside, into the street. And found with surprise that someone else was in the same situation.
Medicine stood in his white coat and gloves. As if he’d just walked out of the emergency room and was now searching for the dead man’s soul among the stars.
His eyes were empty and cold under the dying light of the street lamp. He was awake, yes, the same person as the one under sunlight? Probably not.
Politics glanced down and half expected to see a scalpel protruding from between his gloved fingers.
Medicine did not miss her glance. Without turning to her, he spoke.
“Are you afraid of me?”
Good question, she thought. And it was true that under such a strange light and dressed in such manner he did look slightly unnerving, like a madman finding freedom for the first time. And there was something about his eyes which she’s never noticed before. Something that could only show at night, when you see the stars reflected there, and you realize that his eyes are so dark that the stars melt away into them. She remembered the chemical warfare, all those experiments, human experiments. It was like in a movie, when the protagonist meets the villain by chance, and the villain suddenly reveals himself to be the real killer or something.
But then, she realized that it was not such a scene. No matter how scary he looks, he is only an actor. An actor in a horror film with his villain laugh and scary makeup but an actor all the same, and he will be changed as soon as you turn the camera away. Because he is not the real killer.
I am.
In an even voice she replied,
“You should be afraid of me.”
The stars winked down at them. She could not imagine what they looked like reflected in her eyes.
The ground seemed to rise up and grip her feet. She was upside down, the sky an abyss over her head.
Then, she wondered, as people often do when the night gets to them. She wondered if the sun would ever rise.
She remembered the number of deaths. She wondered if she took the first six digits out and drew them in a chart what they would mean. In a third dimensional graph, they’d mean a dot. She wondered if she did this with all the wars there’d be a picture formed out of the dots. She wondered what it would mean. 它会是什么样子呢？一把手枪？一个圆？一只竖着中指的手？ That, she admitted, was quite funny.
Slowly, she repeated the words to herself, words which had been a joke to her before.
这是最后的斗争。团结起来到明天。
Then, she said goodnight to him, and went inside.
 
A few weeks after, laws were being passed, wounds were being closed, blood was being washed away, and she was back to her old self.

Fn.

(感谢您能耐心读完，晚安)