Der August

Der August

Nun hebt das Jahr die Sense hoch und mäht die Sommertage wie ein Bauer. Wer sät, muss mähen. Und wer mäht, muss säen. Nichts bleibt, mein Herz. Und alles ist von Dauer.

Stockrosen stehen hinterm Zaun in ihren alten, brüchigseidnen Trachten. Die Sonnenblumen, üppig, blond und braun, mit Schleiern vorm Gesicht, schaun aus wie Frau'n, die eine Reise in die Hauptstadt machten.

Wann reisten sie? Bei Tage kaum. Stets leuchteten sie golden am Stakete. Wann reisten sie? Vielleicht im Traum? Nachts, als der Duft vom Lindenbaum an ihnen abschiedssüß vorüberwehte?

In Büchern liest man groß und breit, selbst das Unendliche sei nicht unendlich. Man dreht und wendet Raum und Zeit. Man ist gescheiter als gescheit, - das Unverständliche bleibt unverständlich.

Ein Erntewagen schwankt durchs Feld. Im Garten riecht's nach Minze und Kamille. Man sieht die Hitze. Und man hört die Stille. Wie klein ist heut die ganze Welt! Wie groß und grenzenlos ist die Idylle ...

Nichts bleibt, mein Herz. Bald sagt der Tag Gutnacht. Sternschnuppen fallen dann, silbern und sacht, ins Irgendwo, wie Tränen ohne Trauer. Dann wünsche Deinen Wunsch, doch gib gut acht! Nichts bleibt, mein Herz. Und alles ist von Dauer.

-- Erich Kästner

Okay so I met someone who’s got a tattoo on their arm that looks somewhat like this

And apparently it’s some mountain they climbed once, which is such a beautiful way to honor this memory but. Every time I see this my mind goes

PERRY THE MOUNTAIN

this is just my opinion but i think any good media needs obsession behind it. it needs passion, the kind of passion that's no longer "gentle scented candle" and is now "oh shit the house caught on fire". it needs a creator that's biting the floorboards and gnawing the story off their skin. creators are supposed to be wild animals. they are supposed to want to tell a story with the ferocity of eating a good stone fruit while standing over the sink. the same protective, strange instinct as being 7 and making mud potions in pink teacups: you gotta get weird with it.

good media needs unhinged, googling-at-midnight kind of energy. it needs "what kind of seams are invented on this planet" energy and "im just gonna trust the audience to roll with me about this" energy. it needs one person (at least) screaming into the void with so much drive and energy that it forces the story to be real.

sometimes people are baffled when fanfic has some stunning jaw-dropping tattoo-it-on-you lines. and i'm like - well, i don't go here, but that makes sense to me. of fucking course people who have this amount of passion are going to create something good. they moved from a place of genuine love and enjoyment.

so yeah, duh! saturday cartoons have banger lines. random street art is sometimes the most precious heart-wrenching shit you've ever seen. someone singing on tiktok ends up creating your next favorite song. youtubers are giving us 5 hours of carefully researched content. all of this is the impossible equation to latestage capitalism. like, you can't force something to be good. AI cannot make it good. no amount of focus-group testing or market research. what makes a story worth listening to is that someone cares so much about telling it - through dance, art, music, whatever it takes - that they are just a little unhinged about it.

one time my friend told me he stayed up all night researching how many ways there are to peel an orange. he wrote me a poem that made me cry on public transportation. the love came through it like pith, you know? the words all came apart in my hands. it tasted like breakfast.

imagining your otp doing the forehead touch is literally the most important thing in the whole world. everybody take a second and stop scrolling and imagine your otp doing the forehead touch. okay. you can move on now.

Adamvincent aquarell 🚧