[wurd kuh-LEK-ter] noun. - a blog dedicated to collecting words and quotes of all sizes, shapes, and origins.
I have always had a fondness for words and quotes. I have amassed quite the a collection, and I am eager for it to continue growing. I keep quotes everywhere. Jotted in notebooks, typed into my phone, written on my bedroom walls, in word documents on my computer, scribbled away on pieces of paper... This blog is nothing more than my attempt to keep the quotes and words and other musings that I love so much all in one tidy, pretty, little place.
Feel free to share any words or quotes or poems you love by sending me a message (submit box not ask box). Please be sure to share the source of the quote if you know it, so that I don't have to go looking for the proper person to credit. Enjoy!
Everything you love is here
Oh my God, what if you wake up some day, and you’re 65, or 75, and you never got your memoir or novel written; or you didn’t go swimming in warm pools and oceans all those years because your thighs were jiggly and you had a nice big comfortable tummy; or you were just so strung out on perfectionism and people-pleasing that you forgot to have a big juicy creative life, of imagination and radical silliness and staring off into space like when you were a kid? It’s going to break your heart. Don’t let this happen.Anne Lamott (via jerfreyy)
…and you will somehow get through Charles Bukowski, from Gamblers All (via requiemforthepast)
the slow days and the busy days and the dull days
and the hateful days and the rare days,
all both so delightful and so disappointing because
we are all so alike and so different.
It isn’t that I don’t enjoy talking to people, I just hate small talk. I don’t want to talk about your holiday plans or your body clock or your bowel movements. I don’t care. Pretending to care drains me. I want to know what keeps you up at night.Benedict Smith, Incarnadine (via despicable-g)
Perhaps the most terrifying moment of my life
was the discovery of my parents’ fallibility,
when my father ceased to be a hero and
my mother a queen and
something vile and cruel writhed in my throat,
something they could not vanish,
something they could not eviscerate
with militaristic commands and gentle coaxing,
for this was not a monster under the bed,
this was not an over-zealous imagination;
this was real, this was growing deep
into their daughter’s bones.
And I saw them, finally, as they really were,
stripped of the golden armor
of childhood naivety that had given them
immunity to the failures of humanity
in my too-wide, too-innocent eyes.
My father aches for control,
craves it in the softness of his
He doesn’t know how to be without;
he is a scared, small man
who doesn’t realize that his hands
are made for destruction,
made for ripping out hearts and
crushing them into dust.
My mother is a child,
with an unnecessary temper
that could rip teeth out of the skull.
She fears change,
fears it like death,
and she has reached the end
of growth in the middle of her life.
These were my beginnings,
these are what I have stemmed from,
and I love them, I do;
I love them with the decaying tenderness
that is owed to them,
that will weather over time,
for it is the stone and they are the sea,
and the ocean is unyielding,
even to the frailty of the human heart.
I love them in a different way than I did once-
no longer god-fearing and awed,
but the love of camaraderie,
of those trying to scrape by,
of those trying to make it out alive.