The forest is as old as the world

  I sit there, in the forest, waiting; my painting has finished. Behind me is my horse, I am looking at something… looking at what you can’t see.
  When Horslu watched Celine bathing in the lake, although you had seen the same look in his eyes, you would never know what I saw and the kind of worry it brought me. In other people’s paintings, you will see both of them: Horslu staring at Celine, feasting his eyes. However, the 15th-century miniature painter appointed to paint this painting did not choose to portray what I saw-he only drew my sight. I think that because of this, you should appreciate this painting.
  See how beautiful he painted me: lost in the forest, in the trees, branches, and grass. I was waiting, and the breeze began to blow; the leaves trembled, one by one. The branches are also gently swinging. I’m a little worried. How can this painter’s brushwork express such a profound artistic conception? The branches were up and down in the wind, the flowers blossomed and the forest spread like waves, and the whole world trembled. We heard the waves of the forest, it was the lament of the world. The artist patiently reproduces the lament of the world through the depiction of leaves. Even if it is me sitting in this wind-swept forest at the moment, you can feel the trembling of my loneliness. If you look closer, you will find that the feeling is so old, sitting alone in the forest, it feels as old as the world.