quixotic [kwik-sot-ik] (adjective) In our list of most interesting words, quixotic is the most romantic in every sense. To be quixotic means to be excessively romantic and chivalrous; illogical, idealistic, overall dreamy. It is viewed as an over-idealism filled with absurdity.  (via wordsnquotes)

(via fuckyeahexistentialism)

Sometimes you meet someone, and it’s so clear that the two of you, on some level belong together. As lovers, or as friends, or as family, or as something entirely different. You just work, whether you understand one another or you’re in love or you’re partners in crime. You meet these people throughout your life, out of nowhere, under the strangest circumstances, and they help you feel alive. I don’t know if that makes me believe in coincidence, or fate, or sheer blind luck, but it definitely makes me believe in something. — Unknown (via wethinkwedream)

(via ohheyitsrenee)

Long ago, among other lies they were taught that silence was bravery. Charles Bukowski, Play the Piano Drunk Like an Percussion Instrument Until the Fingers Begin to Bleed a Bit (via wordsnquotes)

(via fuckyeahexistentialism)

There is no permanent Hell, there is no permanent Heaven. Therefore, the suffering that we sense during this transition of life is not a permanent condition that we need to be afraid of. It’s not where we’re going to end up. We end liberated from the suffering either by death, or in life, by waking up to the nature of our situation and not clinging and grasping, screaming and being angry, resentful, irritable or insulted by our existence. — Allen Ginsberg, “Negative Capability: Kerouac’s Buddhist Ethic” (via happinessandfruit)

(via parkstepp)

Scare the world: Be exactly who you say you are and tell the truth. — (via thatonegirljenna)

(via tgifreitag)

You can be in a relationship for two years and feel nothing; you can be in a relationship for 2 months and feel everything. Time is not a measure of quality; of infatuation, or of love. — What my relationships have taught me. (via lozzat)

(via melecwi)


The cute little monk in Xichan Temple, Fuzhou, southeast China’s Fujian Province.

(via falling-for-books)

Writing and reading decrease our sense of isolation. They deepen and widen and expand our sense of life: they feed the soul. When writers make us shake our heads with the exactness of their prose and their truths, and even make us laugh about ourselves or life, our buoyancy is restored. We are given a shot at dancing with, or at least clapping along with, the absurdity of life, instead of being squashed by it over and over again. It’s like singing on a boat during a terrible storm at sea. You can’t stop the raging storm, but singing can change the hearts and spirits of the people who are together on that ship.

Anne Lamott, Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Wrinting and Life. (via bookporn)


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(via fuckyeahexistentialism)

Most of my life has been spent trying to shrink myself. Trying to become smaller. Quieter. Less sensitive. Less opinionated. Less needy. Less me. Because I didn’t want to be a burden. I didn’t want to be too much or push people away. I wanted people to like me. I wanted to be cared for and valued. I wanted to be wanted. So for years, I sacrificed myself for the sake of making other people happy. And for years, I suffered. But I’m tired of suffering, and I’m done shrinking. It’s not my job to change who I am in order to become someone else’s idea of a worthwhile human being. I am worthwhile. Not because other people think I am, but because I exist, and therefore I matter. My thoughts matter. My feelings matter. My voice matters. And with or without anyone’s permission or approval, I will continue to be who I am and speak my truth. Even if it makes people angry. Even if it makes them uncomfortable. Even if they choose to leave. I refuse to shrink. I choose to take up space. I choose honor my feelings. I choose to give myself permission to get my needs met. I choose to make self-care a priority. I choose me. — Daniell Koepke  (via internal-acceptance-movement)

(via internal-acceptance-movement)

My soul is impatient with itself, as with a bothersome child; its restlessness keeps growing and is forever the same. Everything interests me, but nothing holds me. — Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet (via wordsnquotes)

(via fuckyeahexistentialism)

I often repeat myself,
and the second time’s a lie.

I love you.
I love you.
See what I mean, I don’t
…and I do.

And I’m not talking about a girl I might be kissing on,
I’m talking about this world I’m blissing on,
and hating,
at the exact same time.
See life - doesn’t rhyme.

It’s bullets…and wind chimes.
It’s lynchings…and birthday parties.
It’s the rope that ties the noose,
and the rope that hangs the backyard swing.
It’s a boy about to take his life,
and with the knife to his wrist,
he’s thinking of only two things:
His father’s fist,
and his mother’s kiss,
and he can’t stop crying.

It’s wanting tonight to speak
the most honest poem I’ve ever spoken in my life.
Not knowing if that poem should bring you closer
to living or dying,
drowning or flying.
Because life doesn’t rhyme.

Last night, I prayed myself to sleep.
Woke this morning
to find God’s obituary scrolled in tears on my sheets.
Then walked outside to hear my neighbor,
erasing ten thousand years of hard labor,
with a single note of his violin.
And the sound of the traffic rang like a hymn,
as the holiest leaf of autumn fell from a plastic tree limb.
Beautiful - and ugly.

Like right now,
I’m needing nothing more than for you to hug me,
and if you do,
I’m gonna scream like a caged bird.
See…life doesn’t rhyme.

Sometimes love is a vulgar word.
Sometimes hate calls itself “Peace” on the nightly news.
I’ve heard saints preaching truths
that would have burned me at the stake.
I’ve heard poets telling lies that made me believe in heaven.

Sometimes I imagine Hitler, at seven years old,
a paint brush in his hand at school
thinking, “what color should I paint my soul?”

Sometimes I remember myself
with track marks on my tongue,
from shooting up convictions
that would have hung innocent men from trees.
Have you ever seen a mother falling to her knees
the day her son dies in a war she voted for?

Can you imagine how many gay teenage lives were saved
the day Matthew Shepherd died?

Could there have been anything louder
than the noise inside his father’s head
when he begged the jury,
“Please don’t take the lives of the men
who turned my son’s skull to powder.”
And I know nothing would make my family prouder
than giving up everything I believe in.
Still nothing keeps me believing
like the sound of my mother breathing.

Life doesn’t rhyme.

It’s tasting your rapist’s breath
on the neck of a woman who loves you more
than anyone has loved you before.
Then feeling holy as Jesus
beneath the hands of a one night stand
who’s calling somebody else’s name.

It’s you never feeling more greedy
than when you’re handing out dollars to the needy.
It’s my not eating meat for the last seven years,
then seeing the kindest eyes I’ve ever seen in my life
on the face of a man with a branding iron in his hand,
and a beat down baby calf wailing at his feet.

It’s choking on your beliefs.
It’s your worst sin saving your fucking life.
It’s the devil’s knife carving holes into you soul
so angels will have a place to make their way inside.

Life doesn’t rhyme

Still, life is poetry - not math.
All the world’s a stage,
but the stage is a meditation mat.

You tilt your head back,

You breathe.
When your heart is broken you plant seeds in the cracks
and you pray for rain,

and you teach your sons and daughters
there are sharks in the water.

But the only way to survive,
is to breathe deep,

and dive

— Andrea Gibson, Dive (via life-sucksandthenyou-die)

(via letyourselfbeworthy)

Once you have tasted flight you will forever walk the earth with your eyes turned skyward, for there you have been and there you will always long to return. Leonardo Da Vinci  (via thestylishgypsy)

(via megacosms)

(via parkstepp)