My Camelot Era

People always say that when the monarch of a country enters heaven, it also symbolizes that the nation has fallen, just like when the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem was burned to the ground, tragic and powerless. The sky, too, feels as if its soul has been pulled away, no longer bearing sun or clouds.

What remains is sorrow, anger, and silence. They pull against each other, torment one another like silk, and perhaps that’s the day the sky had longed for the most—because it had never experienced such a thing.

To the woman who wove Camelot, the death of her country’s monarch marked the exit of an era, the laying down of identity, the pause of duty. But to her, the Camelot dynasty she built would never wither. It was the imprint of an age, and she never had to cry out to prove it, because she carved herself into people’s memory with calm, with wisdom, with resilience—like a ticking clock, tick-tock, endlessly awakening the memories that had died, teaching people to respect her, to cherish her.

November 22nd, to her, was the first time she learned to step onto the center of the stage as a coronation ceremony. The spotlight and the stage, for the first time, did not look at her with sarcasm as she walked up the stairs. That day, she didn’t cry, didn’t shout, didn’t scream—she hurt beautifully, and with grace. She had her own pride. She never let others easily understand her, just like always: speaking English with a hint of French cadence, wearing a beige coat and black flats stepping through grass and mud—never hoping to be understood. And this time was no exception. She remained unreadable, yet became a symbol of the age.

That day, her only battle robe was the bloodstained pink Chanel suit—not overly adorned, yet still radiant. She didn’t cry; perhaps the breeze had already gently wiped away her tears. And she quietly looked up at the sky, standing on the inauguration platform, speaking the most piercing words: “There will be great Presidents again… but there will never be another Camelot.” She seemed to be reminding me that the Japanese colonial era had long ended. You cannot live in the past forever, and you cannot spend your whole life only understanding Shōwa. But you do have the right to wear a brown long skirt and a brown hat—because although you are already “Republic of China,” your soul is eternally Shōwa. She also seemed to tell me: the only thing you must do is keep reminding the world to remember and cherish that generation. But you must build your own Camelot, because the soul of Shōwa will keep you in the past, and the existence of the ROC will only make your identity blurrier.

And people will surely misread you.

To me, the Japanese colonial era is not Camelot, but it’s like that silver thread in memory that can never be cut. I tried using the only tools I had to sever it, but the thread only tightened around me. Still, curiosity always drew me to observe the outside world—a kind of peeking between day and night. Until I discovered that people out there were silently passing around something magical. I tried to make myself more like them, and so I quietly took some fairy dust from others and rubbed it all over me.

Although the fairy dust helped me see a little clearer, I realized it was never truly my own soul. So I searched again—until I discovered that only when you no longer fear the monster’s existence will the weapons gently arrive like cotton candy. Then I realized: newspapers are the key, white headscarves are the key, and burning hearts are the most important, and, of course, the pen.

I saw people using their feet and near-dehydrated bodies to shout: “Give me back my freedom!”

Protesting, writing, assembling, and talking politics weren’t things ordinary people of the previous generation could do—basically, it wasn’t their turn. But something called a “non-cooperation movement” exists. Stripped down, it’s just politics—but hidden. And the heroine of Camelot understood this logic. She never publicly spoke about politics. She never joined the masses in shouting slogans. But she was the one pulling the strings behind the scenes. Her outfit, her marriage, her gaze, even her silence, were all politic. She wrapped her life as gentle and intellectual, but her soul had always been planning a political rescue.

Curiosity always kills. And so Cheng Nan-jung committed suicide. Tsai Tieh-cheng was executed. And we were left drowning in grief. But their words remain. He said his sister was the only companion in his life. He said his sister was beautiful. Just like I would say the era owes them an apology. We always say these things. But as we say them, people forget. So we must keep reminding the world never to forget. But don’t be too sad—someone will always think you’re too repetitive. And I’m tired.

And so, I rebuilt my own Camelot there. Who says the end of one era means the next cannot arrive?

But my Camelot is still not built. Because Machiavelli said that for a republic to survive, it must have: intelligent elites who understand politics, a ruler who knows power is never eternal, and a people united.

But the monster we now face knows none of these truths. I weep for Machiavelli. I mourn for him. Because the monster disdains reading, never absorbs wisdom, and is bound to perish in tyranny.

But even if the monster is huge, it is only physically strong. It has no solid political foundation, no stable system, no politically literate and wise people to protect and uphold its kingdom. The monster sleeps, and so do its people. But what’s laughable is that its neighbor to the right dares not even close its eyes. Because we fear that once we fall asleep, both our spirit and our bodies will disappear forever—like passersby in history who never existed, silent as a blank page. I no longer want to stay so silent, so I try to pick up that blank page and pierce through it, so that others will see I exist.

So I keep screaming, keep writing, keep chanting slogans, keep studying history, keep learning politics—not to wake the sleeping monster and its people. Because shouting, writing, and chanting were forbidden acts to those before us. We are here to speak what they could not, to pay off their unspoken debts.

The Camelot I will write with my own hands has just begun to arrive. Even though I am still sad, even though energies that slowly erode my potential still surround me, perhaps these are the most beautiful forms of encouragement from another parallel world.

Like when she thought I would cry again at her sarcastic, carefully packaged question, I chose not to cry. Because I finally found my weapon. Only by moving forward, crawling through molten lava, bleeding, will the light finally break in.

And I will leave them behind.

Just like Machiavelli said, you must be a lion and a fox. So there’s no time to cry. I must learn from Napoleon the strategies of high-level politics, but I must also learn from William of Orange how to let go without compromise. The position I long for most is that of Jackie, not because she built her own Camelot era,

But because she wrapped the culture, memory, and art of an era in calm, and permanently preserved the farewell of political glory.

And we’re still trapped in a psychedelic vortex. Shōwa is our temperament. The Republic is our imposed identity. Yet we possess the strongest weapons and armor—because they were granted to us by Formosa. Our era has never been as simple as Camelot, but like Camelot, it holds both courage and resilience.

I am not the heroine of Camelot. But I quietly watch her, until one day, I can sketch her into my blueprint. Our time will come.

Disclaimer

The views and opinions expressed in Craccum are those of individual contributors and do not necessarily reflect those of the editorial team or the publication as a whole. While we aim to ensure accuracy and fairness, Craccum cannot guarantee the complete reliability of all information presented and assumes no liability for errors or omissions.