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      Autumn's cool breeze whispers through the streets of Chengdu, where chrysanthemums bloom in vibrant hues. Legend has it that the city's name, Chengdu, signifies its swift rise to prominence: “King Tai of Zhou moved to Mount Qi, establishing a city in a year and Chengdu in two." This ancient city has witnessed the poignant musings of Du Fu, the renowned poet who penned verses of sorrow and longing in his humble thatched cottage, and the unwavering dedication of Zhuge Liang, the brilliant strategist who served as a revered statesman during the Three Kingdoms period.

      It seems that many of those who found themselves drawn to Chengdu were figures of tragic fate. Think of Emperor Xuanzong of Tang, who sought refuge in the city during the An Lushan Rebellion, a tumultuous period that shook the very foundations of his reign. Or consider the modern writer Ai Wu, who found himself in Chengdu during the Cultural Revolution, a time of immense political and social upheaval. In his writings about his imprisonment in Chengdu's Zhaojue Temple, Ai Wu reflected, “I've been imprisoned by British imperialism in Yangon and Hong Kong, and by the Kuomintang in Shanghai and Suzhou, but none were as comfortable as the socialist prison in Chengdu."

      How do the people of Chengdu, known for their laid-back charm and love of good food, view their own tumultuous history? One story, often recounted, speaks volumes about their resilience: On July 27, 1947, when Japanese planes bombed Chengdu, a family was discovered continuing their game of mahjong, even in the face of death.

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      Perhaps it's precisely because these historical figures found solace in Chengdu, because these humorous stories unfolded here, that the city has gained its rich history, its unique character, its enduring weight. Compared to the grand metropolises that fiercely battle against storms, Chengdu's nonchalance highlights a carefree acceptance of fate, a playful cynicism, a sense of serenity that shrugs off even the collapse of the heavens.

      On every street corner, you'll find crowds gathered around vendors selling spicy skewers, a mere dime a piece, a testament to the city's love of flavorful street food. But old Chengdu residents complain, “To say that Chengdu cuisine is necessarily spicy is a great misunderstanding of Sichuan cuisine. Spicy dishes are for everyday meals. When Sichuan people host a formal dinner, there might not be a single spicy dish on the table, only a small dish of chili peppers placed on the side." Chengdu's snack city offers a variety of convenient options for customers, including hot pot, cold dishes, and snacks, but old Chengdu residents lament that the snacks are no longer authentic, that the true flavors have faded, a sentiment echoed in many cities undergoing rapid modernization.

      Wanli Bridge, the starting point where Zhuge Liang sent his emissary to Wu, stands as a testament to his words, “A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step." In the late 20th century, Chengdu residents demolished Wanli Bridge to make way for new urban planning, a decision that sparked sighs of regret among those who cherished the city's historical landmarks. Balancing economic development with the preservation of historical sites is a challenge faced by many cities around the world. Perhaps, in cities with a rich history like Chengdu, this dilemma is even more pronounced. People are constantly striving for change, yet lamenting the loss of time. The journey of a thousand miles has a new starting point, but where will this new path lead?

      Perhaps my preconceived notions about Chengdu, a city known for its relaxed pace and its appreciation for the finer things in life, influenced my perception of the chrysanthemum festival, adding a touch of melancholy and sensitivity to my experience.

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      The lush Chengdu People's Park remains untouched by the fervor of the Western Forum's economic development discussions held in the city's conference hall. The chrysanthemums, their petals tightly clustered around the heart of the flower, remain closed, holding their secrets close. Even the most upright petals curve slightly, a poignant blend of resignation and serenity, of reserved elegance and audacious freedom, of refined grace and approachable warmth.

      Chengdu writer Liushahe, in his lament for the city's soul, cries out:

“People of Chengdu, have you recovered the souls lost to the spicy hotpot?

People of Chengdu, have you recovered the souls lost to mahjong and poker?

People of Chengdu, have you recovered the souls lost to the pursuit of fame and fashion?"

      As I wander through the park, I ponder the different stories each flower holds, their concerns for Chengdu's past, present, and future.......