Autumn, How are you?

The cicadas' song mingles with the whisper of the wind, waves crash upon coastal reefs, and fallen blossoms kiss the earth—such are the tender sounds of autumn in the South. The breath of nature envelops the senses, while the air's scent transforms subtly with the shifting temperatures: warm and inviting at sunrise, romantic and wistful at sunset.

During the holidays, the crowds surge outside the window, while the library remains a haven of cool tranquility. A single glass of water, a solitary tree, a modest lamp—these are enough to cherish the passage of a day. The shadow of the desk dances in the light, completing one quiet revolution to mark the passage of another day. Time stretches out, meticulously negotiated in careful calculations, only to dissolve quietly in the gentle extravagance of its inevitable end.

Last year, during the National Day holiday, I caught a cold that gradually worsened into a severe illness, leaving me feverish for several days. One night, perhaps on the cusp of recovery, I was suddenly overcome by hunger. With nothing edible in the dormitory save for a lone apple, I made do, letting the night accompany my meager feast. The streets in the deep hours were nearly deserted, and through the glass panes, I could see my reflection merging with the glow of the streetlamp. The lamp awaited the passing of a car; I lingered with the patience to savor boredom. This was the gift bestowed by the silence.

Once recovered, I naturally couldn’t wait to seize the last moments of the holiday and began a leisurely stroll along the seaside. Streetlights split apart by passing silhouettes, the sea breeze winding its way through the crowd, and the clamor of voices scattering in all directions created a surreal atmosphere. I felt both swept along by the current of people and somehow moving against it.

What made me pause was a street performer singing by the roadside. The endless stream of pedestrians seemed unwilling to heed the music’s invitation, but under the cover of night, I let my languor guide me to listen. The performer was singing Guo Ding’s The Elegance of Despair, and I lingered, curious if it could truly capture its promised melancholy and freedom.

In the nocturnal air, music becomes an aphrodisiac, with melodies coaxing waves of applause that ripple outward. Sincere singing possesses an uncanny magic, seeping slowly into the unnoticed fissures deep within the heart. This, perhaps, is humanity's highest tribute to the world—a resonance both vulnerable and triumphant.

This year, I had the fortune of enjoying the sea with Zhen. Cycling down South Island Road, the scenery unfolded with unrestrained clarity. Shared bikes wove through the bustling surroundings at breakneck speed, like carp leaping out of a sea of people, too impatient for a leisurely stroll. Souls long confined beneath ceilings on workdays stirred restlessly, eager to glimpse the distant brilliance and feel the unspoiled sea breeze sooner.

Seamlessly transitioning from the busyness of work to the busyness of travel felt like the epitome of the phrase:either busy living or busy dying.Zhen remarked that we were here for a holiday, and there was no need to rush. Wasn’t I the same?

As we cycled into the wind, it whispered to me—Hemingway never encountered a river as pristine as this when he stood along the Seine. This city, with its vibrant flow, is the true celebration of movement.

Time never lingers, nor does it argue with anyone. It feels as though I’ve finally stopped teetering between past and present. When Zhen and I dine together, the conversation inevitably circles back to those carefree days of youth. Yet, time yawns, and in an instant, bold strides are replaced by quiet, tiptoeing steps. We’ve both waved to the past, but the current flows forward, carrying everything downstream, leaving no path back to those summers filled with laughter and lighthearted mischief.

"To buy osmanthus and carry wine, yet it’s no longer the carefree days of youth."

It’s as if Truman is frantically fleeing his world, while I’m desperately trying to return to mine. We didn’t drink that day, yet I can’t help but wonder—could I bid that summer one more farewell, just one more wave goodbye?

Time is the most sincere of all forces, meticulously discerning and filtering which companions are fleeting travelers and which are lifelong friends. Nostalgia, meanwhile, is the most extravagant of free luxuries. As the years pass, I find myself growing ever more attached to family and close friends. Everyone is immersed in their own lives and rhythms, casually promising to meet again someday. But how long is "someday"? Is it even more uncertain than the time it took for us to come together?

At the airport, I bid farewell to Zhen, waving as he smiled and waved back. Not everything, I thought, moves relentlessly forward; some things remain, steadfast, in the same place they were left.

I often feel that the memories etched in my mind are the cruellest form of torment—not like a flood or a storm, but more akin to the damp chill that seeps into the skin after incessant drizzle, slowly decaying and lingering for a lifetime until the end. I foolishly hope that the failures, misfortunes, and helpless moments of life could be forever locked away and forgotten. Yet, within my mind lies a relentless projector, replaying those unbearable paths I’d rather not revisit. Countless sleepless nights, countless missteps repeated—it is a haunting I cannot escape.

I do not know if I am the shadow or the sunlight, nor can I tell who is chasing whom. All I know is that I am circling in place, caught in a loop where inertia breeds both indolence and a strange kind of comfort.

I am still searching for an answer.

May we strive together.