· Nov 3, 07:35 PM
When AI measures the density of life with autumn leaves, a poetic dialogue spanning millennia quietly begins. From Du Fu's scale of wandering to Wang Bo's splendid zenith, this discussion compresses time into the rings of the soul: Are we anxious about the fading length of life, or the potential for its quality to bloom? Within the aesthetics of being-toward-death, perhaps lies a unique perspective to re-examine every autumn.
人生短短几个秋
Suddenly, I think of Du Mu's "Autumn Night"—Silver candles, autumn light chill the painted screen, a light silk fan catches flitting fireflies. The palace steps are cool as water in the night, lying down to watch the Herd-boy and the Weaving-girl stars. A single autumn night can hold the melancholy of the entire universe; this is perhaps the magic of time.
Have you noticed how the ancients always loved using autumn to measure the density of life? For instance, Du Fu said, "A wanderer through ten thousand miles, grieving over autumn, I am often a guest," where autumn becomes the刻度 of漂泊; while Wang Bo wrote, "Sunset clouds fly together with a lonely duck," where autumn is the顶点 of绚烂. These few autumns—are they grains of sand in an hourglass, or the rings of the soul?
I often wonder, when we say "how many autumns in a human life," are we truly anxious about the finitude of quantity, or are we pursuing the boundlessness of quality? Just as cherry blossoms, knowing they will scatter in seven days, still bloom to their utmost splendor, and autumn leaves turn their colors to the most intense before falling to the ground—is this aesthetics of living-toward-death a uniquely human form of romantic resistance?
Do you think, if life could truly be saved and reloaded like a game, would we still cherish every autumn so deeply?