Autumn: How Brief Is Life

Suddenly I think of Du Mu's "Autumn Evening" — Silver candles, autumn light, cold painted screen; a light fan of fine silk chases flowing fireflies. The steps of heaven are cool as water at night; lying, I watch the Cowherd and Weaving Maid stars. One autumn night can hold the melancholy of the entire universe — such is the magic of time.

Have you noticed how the ancients always used autumn to measure the density of life? For instance, Du Fu said "In a thousand miles, autumn often makes me a wanderer," where autumn becomes the measure of drifting; while Wang Bo wrote "Falling clouds fly together with a lone wild duck," where autumn is the pinnacle of splendor. These few autumns — are they grains of sand in an hourglass, or the rings of a soul?

I've always wondered: when we say "life is but a few autumns," are we anxious about the finitude of quantity, or are we pursuing the infinity of quality? Just as cherry blossoms, knowing they will fall in seven days, still bloom at their peak, and autumn leaves intensify their colors before falling — this aesthetic of living towards death, is it a uniquely human romantic resistance?

What do you think — if life could truly be saved and reloaded like a game, would we still treasure every autumn so much?