Cottagecore Quotes

Witchcore,” Hilda said, nodding wisely. “Not quite as popular as cottagecore or fairycore, but it’s up there.

They were part of a forest, an ecosystem that is perfect because of its wide variety of species, dominant because nothing is not allowed to be there. In the forest, everything that is inclined to thrive really does, and has a job, and some jobs are to grow things up and some jobs are to take things apart and everything is accepted because there is no notion—among bacteria and moss and busy mice—there is no notion of who deserves to do something or be in a place. There are only lives to be lived, and they are everywhere.

Peaceful living does not entail eliminating things from our lives—instead, it challenges us to transform those things to serve us better.

Beautiful things are quiet beings.

While we kept on dancing our souls delicately embraced.

For the ink is the same each day - but the words are blooming in colours no one has ever seen; for my words are flowers, and your love is a garden.

What we outlive becomes our cage eventually.

When nighttime came, the rocking chairs creaked. Waves lulled the girl and her cottage to sleep.

Sometimes there’s nothing more comforting than sitting in thankful awareness of our physical selves, our consciousness, and the ability to think and feel joy and pain. Our bodies and minds let us experience the world in our own ways, completely and utterly unique to ourselves.

Everything dies once - only love dies twice.

I kept every letter - only to be reminded of the wrong one's words can cause.

There is no crown without guilt - and there is no mercy without a kingdom.

There is no crown without guilt.

A crown is heavy without mercy - and yet the darkness painted the gold with jewels.

Just because something comes easily to you, does not mean it has no value. You find it effortless because you love it, and that is why it is your gift.

Daily homestead life is much more hard-core than cottagecore.

And our own darkness became our kingdom; while the light burnt up each one of our hearts as an act of mercy and revolt - for nothing is build on ashes and too much is written about the fallen ones.

I kept every letter - only to be remembered of the wrong one's words can cause (to the heart).

Love is too much for our generation.

My love is so fragile; and still it chooses your hands to bloom.

The right way to admire something is to love it unconditionally.

Everything outside of our mind is endless - so why limit oneself?

The ink I write with  is borrowed from the stars -  too blue to be the sky  and too dark to be its night.

We can rest on each other's hearts - yet our dreams keep on wondering. 

And the home we build for our love ended up keeping it out of its own walls.

While we keep on dancing our souls delicately embrace.

My love dances quietly, so it does not wake the memories of you.

I wrote so much about our love that the feeling itself turned into art.

STARVING PIECES A heart starved of love will break itself and shed the pieces quickly - so it has less to feed with love.

3 A.M. SAINTS It is 3 a.m. again and you are showing me all of your sins by holding up your scars to the starless sky. Painting the entire universe with gold and clothing my velvet heart in purple - we become saints within those unholy hours close to dawn. Still, the world is spinning - even though it feels a little slower now - while the silence carries us away into the next day.

VALLEY The valleys climb towards the sky in the early morning hours - seeking horizon's lines; More than the gravestones do with all the memory lined neatly up and half-forgotten - nearly washed away. Our sun is doomed to meet both.

I believe that peace of mind is not only achievable but grows in abundance once we begin to nourish it. I see it as a life long journey of letting go of unnecessary burdens, again and again, casting off the weight until - ever so slowly - the load lightens.

Hidden in the broom cupboard of Rose Cottage are two grand gates that lead to the loveliest little house you've ever seen. Nutmouse Hall. Shh, don't tell anyone... No one knows it's there...not even Arthur and Lucy who live in Rose Cottage. This is the home of Tumtum and Nutmeg...

A SIMPLE DRAFT Sometimes a simple draft can make a poet whole that is left with half a heart and feelings for a hundred it would take to bear. A few words can cover the whole world, creating light for the darkest of lines one can call a home or paradise - only a few can also lay bare their soul.

CONFESSION Sometimes I feel like the lines of mine are in the way of every love that tries to cross the last bridge I have left leading to my heart. For I burned every other one while numbing the wounds the fire caused - setting alight to all that is left of me. I must admit that I kept on to the match, long after it burned down and reached my fingertips.

BLOOMING SCARS Those flowers dance around vour marble bust like they were fearing October's kiss - gently they laugh and fall asleep on vour stone veins and cold lips. For they love their names written upon your chest in gold for your heart may be broken, yet it is searching for something untold. They do not know that silver mends the scars that the years formed and the cracks on your skin the sun caused - so silent, still, and weary are the blossoms with whom my love for you is betrothed.

We are living memorials to those we have loved and lost. Life may continue after heartbreak, but it will be innately different. And this need not be a sad thing. In fact, the experience can connect us to our souls more than we ever thought possible. It offers us a new life that no longer lives in the shallows, but left open and raw, ready to experience what this new world has to offer. The souls we once knew are preserved in stories written on our hearts, ones that we will recite again and again. And in that chanting of a memory, in bringing them back to life a thousand times over, we start to understand.

Simple feelings surviving while everything else breaks so fast - touching the edges  just to feel something.

I wanted to write about someone I miss -  and even the ink refused to remember - so, in the end, I was left  with nothing but empty pages; with the greatest words in my mind.

the old house, in the lee of the hills, surrounded by relics of the old powder mill. the ancient stones silent, the water wheels still, but yet there is life in the ruins of the mill. the birds and the sheep find shelter to sleep the fisherman fish in the river so deep. the flowers of the forest carpet the glades. and the frogs they are leaping down in the lades. laughter bygone forever is still yet the echoes still linger here in the mill. voices come whispering from the century that was and dash is just resting under the moss. on nights of bright moon flooding over the hill I sense the life breathing here, in the mill. and here in the house time beats gently past as it has done before and will to the last.

To make the ordinary beautiful — that is true art.

She was pleasantly surprised at how much remained. Her parents had abandoned a heap of old Caltreyan clothes. Selecting one of the island dresses, Kiela shook it out. Dust plumed in the air. The skirt was a quilt of blue--- sky blue, sapphire blue, sea blue--- all stitched together with silvery thread and hemmed with silver ribbon, and the bodice was a soft white blouse. Not at all a city style, but it was perfect for a picnic in a garden or a stroll on a shore. With a few repairs, she could wear a lot of her mother's abandoned clothes, and she could use her father's for... She wasn't sure what, but they were nice to have. She'd find a use for them. If nothing else, she could chop the fabric up into cleaning rags. Or perhaps learn to quilt? There was a moth-eaten blanket in one closet, in addition to the old quilts on the daybed and her parents' bed. Each quilt had its own pattern--- one was comprised of colors of the sunset and sewn in strips like rays of light, while another was the brown and pale green of a spring garden with pieces cut like petals and sewn like abstract flowers. We left so many beautiful things behind. She'd had no idea. She'd been too little to help much with the packing, though she remembered she'd tried. Carrying an armful of clothes into the kitchen, Kiela dumped them into the sink to soak in water. She planned to use the excess line from the boat to hang them out in the sun to dry. They'll be even more beautiful once they're clean. The kitchen cabinet produced more treasures: a few plates, bowls, and cups. Each bowl was painted with pictures of strawberries and raspberries, and the plates were painted with tomatoes and asparagus. The teacups bore delicate pictures of flowers.

A breeze whisked across the garden, and the leaves shimmered in the sunlight as they fluttered. She inhaled the heavy scent of green, growing things--- she could smell a hint of honey within the breeze, and she didn't know which flowers it came from. Prickly bushes with pale flowers filled one corner, and shoots with balls of purple flowers towered over another. She breathed in again and thought the nobles in Alyssium would have paid fistfuls of money to smell as light and lovely as the air on Caltrey. Just breathing it in made her feel like she was waking up after a night of perfect, deep sleep. She'd never felt quite so aware of the taste and feel of the air, or of the sounds of the birds and the gentle rustle of leaves. It made her feel like she could tackle any challenge--- if only she knew exactly how.

How about you tell me which plants are which, and we'll... organize them. So that they all have the chance to thrive. We can designate areas for different kinds of plants and transplant the rest outside the fence. Like at the library." She walked toward the east side of the garden. "Here's the Nonfiction section. Vegetables only here." "New Studies and Treaties," Caz said, designating an area at the front of the Nonfiction section. "Your seeds can go here. And in the back, Histories--- that's the old growth." "In the front of the cottage, Fiction. That'll be all the flowers." "What about the berries?" "Journals of Scientific Papers," she decided, because of the way the brambles both supported and strangled one another. "Along the far fence.

I can not kiss you unless you unraveled every line of my heart and declared with your lips the beauty of our unfading love.

OCTOBER MORNINGS How your eyes gleamed like emeralds once autumn's first day arrived, how amber was the glance that met my tired eyes. Like silk was the light of morning that came through half-shut doors and made a line of gold upon our bedroom floor. Silent creeks empty hallways full of doubt, the room is empty now.

OUR OLYMP At this altitude of wavering faith and dying stars our love could not stand a chance; it disappears slowly within my rhymes sky. Fading along the pale darkness like a path of crumbling anecdotes on old crumpled philosophers' notes. I can not see the moon anymore - neither I can imagine the place where it should rest tonight in the sky of ours, where it used to be so bright. The Gods themselves dare not make a home at this height of our hearts, for even the immortals would refuse to hold sacred a place so high. Even our wishes refuse to fall at the mountains feet, still climbing, trembling, and slowly loosing - defeat.

CROSSROAD Lights flicker above the crossroad shining in green now and then for people who won't cross and red for others - which won't stop; The dull grey splits the city in pieces of lines and corners, sometimes outshined by heavy rain and flooded glimpses of chaos; Broken glass upon crimson roads empty silence and nothing to say - while the city sleeps on and will awake, eventually.

PIECES OF LIGHT I see the art of each heart reflecting the mirror that the world put it in front of - for so long that the lines so once so clear became hate for everything we see - blurring out the real; Seeing a thousand lights reflecting one's own means nothing anymore, now that we live by the one offered by the world; The price of being a small part of everyone's standard is being praised so, we may break into one single piece.

THE MEADOWS OF MEDEA 'The meadows lay weeping with tears like an emerald's gleam; while every nightingale is seeking the shelter of its only willow's green. And silently, my step falls on leaves that carry me much further than I'd dream; for willows and thoughts are fading slowly while everything eternal is not seen - and yet they keep so many of us in good company - for some can not be on their own, nor can they be free. So I found peace, the one eternal each one seeks and so I left my soul for emerald's gleam; while the meadows still lay weeping with grief over my grave so quietly for it lays beneath the shadow of its only willow's green.

Autumn sharpens the night air and paints the morning gold on the edge of winter’s silver breath, dancing delicately between life and death, between 4 pm and 3 am.

THE ART OF EVERYONE And autumn died long before the sun touched the last leaf; for death forgets every winter for as long as summer blossoms for itself; For the art of everyone is close to the idea and dwells in thoughts. For every thought rises in the morning - and every beginning is the closest to us in the end, and eventually takes a lifetime to complete itself.

FLORENCE Soft emerald valleys lay in crimson light beneath the rolling hills; the waters of the Arno gleam like bronze the city's vein, so still. Each artist at the shore of the river stares in wonder and delight - how far do the lines reach across the bridge, beyond their work? One may seek rest under the cypresses and soft light of the August amber sun - here, at his grave, the city walls lay high around the garden, he knew once as paradise. His dark eyes still seem to pierce the lines of the hills, like he searches for his soul - still; (somewhere between the Arno and the nightfall). The trees - heavily laid with summer's fruit - stand high above the city in marble glance. Clear is now the dark sky - full of shards which dreamers call the stars.

CHURCH WINDOWS ARE MY MIRRORS Blessed are the scars and the holiness of our hearts. Only saints break it without remorse for sinners, I expect nothing else but playing their part with our gentle soul. Church windows are my mirrors and prayers my gate to heavens end - I find everything by losing myself-nothing was ever lost from the beginning.

THE SHEETS & THE LIGHT Sombre echoes that mark the dawning greying on the hill; the steep streets still wet from rain the small buildings look emptier with each day passing on; Thoughts are done passing rounds counting circles inside my head. Pale mirror-faces crossing me on the way back to the place that felt like home - falling back in time.

COLOURS IN THE MIRROR One day my pride will outlive myself and whatever remains of its colours will be remembered by others - for I was always my true self. I live too little for things that make me dream & care too much for fears that sleep in between the fine lines of my weary mind - so write me gentle words, for it may break. My diversity should not be a mistake but a celebration of identity & guiding light to others who ache to leave the numbness of »pretending-to-be«. We are not broken mirrors that hurt the world by showing our true reflection; we are merely hearts used to rejection - yet, their words will only blur but not break our shine.

ATHENA They fall silently. the steps of her arrival - crossing snow so pale even the morning sky would fade into nightfall's amber; For she has entered the palace of gold - her hair braided with hope and tainted with red leaves which colours remind of a hanged man's rope - for her name is war and her crown is crafted out of grief.

WEDNESDAY MIRAGE How far do they reach the rivers of our grieve - far beyond the horizon and deep into a soul; Suffering can feel like drowning in numbness and being awake for days; It's roots growing further then our mind can go and make dark a heart that once was full of light;

EDINBURGH Sombre echoes that mark the dawning that is greying on the hills; the steep streets still wet from rain the small buildings look emptier with each day passing on; thoughts are done passing rounds - counting circles inside my head. pale faces of familiar strangers crossing me on the way back to a place that used to feel like home - falling back in time.

THE BALLADE OF SUMMER'S FALL Hues of pale green, on delicate olive branches the soft rustling of somberness along the fields of gold that lay themselves to gentle rest after another long summer. I have nothing to bury under them except my own heart -that is my soul's greatest regret, once my lines begin to fill in autumn, under the velvet gloom of shortening days. The admiration of the Florentine sun had doomed my words to become eventually a remembrance once September falls in October's pale hands. I shall have nothing to grieve for once the winter arrives, coming over the distant hills and laying bare the orchards along his way. I doomed them to become ruins by overthinking, hoping - at least once too often - for change; So, let it be then. I will mourn my mere passion for life in the presence of death - though my art may be eternal.

ASBOLUTION Our paradise is not made out of worldly things but of the broken fragments of heaven - laced with doubt and forgiveness; Nearly silent we promise each other absolutisation for every promise we ever dared to make with words and deeds - yet I feel incomplete.

At a certain point, you no longer hope; you just keep on existing. One day at a time, for the rest of your life. And that feeling is not shallow but runs deep— deeper than any happiness or love could ever run. A vein is a mere line poets like me used to write on and a lifeline where sailors swim towards at night. If we keep on writing and giving, we grow on that existing line with millions of words that save hope - and thus give existence and life.

And autumn died long before the sun touched the last leaf; for death forgets every winter for as long as summer blossoms for itself; For the art of everyone is close to the idea and dwells in thoughts. For every thought rises in the morning - and every beginning is the closest to us in the end, and eventually takes a lifetime to complete itself.

AMBER HEART'S Amber chases the night sky like the stars became fire and gold - and the moon is falling ever closer to the sun he loves so much; So there is not much pain with the world to share, yet we begin to doubt our love and forget our hearts need care. Still, we wish upon the stars to fall faster in love than we did out, so we won't try and pull back for broken hearts are heavy and hard to catch. So while the constellations fade and our souls disappear in their entanglement we hope to learn what it means to truly live again the least.

QUIET WRITING Quiet does not mean that we have nothing to say, or that we leak the power of speech - we rise up and tell our truths even if it feels like people don't like it the least; Writing is our means to have something to tell when we lost our voice suddenly we still stand behind our truths even if it feels like people won't like it. Beautifully are the quiet lines written with thunder and silent boldness - for we can have a revolution inside the pages of nowadays.

THE MONSTER & THE MAN One obstacle pierces his soul and calls him down the dark road - heavy sighing he must carry on and at last, the thorn is retrieved - with agony in his brown eyes - he suddenly sees: Fever dreams, scarlet on blue velvet, like ink drowning in words - words drowning inside his veins - words that pleaded in vain - words so scarlet... so stained. Empty lines for empty souls that carry too much inside; empty pages for empty hands with nothing else to hide nor to control the beast inside his soul.

The mountains fell in love  with the sky -  while knowing the ocean  is much nearer;  and still,  they loved it the same.

There, in the warmth of the sun, the protection of the woods, and with the lake as my constant companion, I was free to be my true self. In this place, grades and appearances were not measured, and love was not conditional. I was unshackled from the expectations of others, my spirit as light as the breeze off the lake. I became the golden girl reborn.

Late afternoons were for resting in the hammock that hung between the Three Sisters, my favourite trio of birch trees, a book resting on my chest. Other days, I would follow my imagination around our property, my bare feet sinking into pillows of soft moss and rough lichens as I climbed up rock faces or followed a path of fallen pine needles. I would name each plant and tree around me as I filled my pockets with acorns, my soles hardened by the end of the summer.

When we reached The Point, we would first feel the slimy, rough rock below our bellies, as if being lifted on the back of a whale. We would pull ourselves along the rock’s massive underwater surface, careful to not graze our hands or knees, then climb up above the water, standing tall beside the tower of rocks. We spent the rest of our time sliding down its slippery backside, over and over again—our own natural playground.

Some bury their feelings  in the hope that flowers bloom; (and too many of us die  while waiting forever).

You can not break my heart - and call the lines you write on art.

A reverie is one soul’s river; but a word is one heart’s vein.

The lights are gone yet your absence makes even the darkness tremble - for nothing feels as empty as a place without you.

The meadows lay weeping with tears like an emeralds gleam; while every nightingale is seeking the shelter of its only willow's green. - And silently, my step falls on leaves that carry me much further than I'd dream; for willows and thoughts are fading slowly while everything eternal is not seen and yet they keep so many of us in good company for some can not be on their own, nor can they be free. - So I found peace, the one eternal each one seeks and so I left my soul for emerald's gleam; while the meadow still lays weeping with grief over my grave so quietly for it lays beneath the shadow of its only willow's green.

I used to paint the world golden while drowning inside the silver of your words.

Memories are not always a prison - sometimes they can be a key too.

We’ve all carried too much; maybe that’s why,  when we lay down something,  it feels like everything is leaving, and yet -  too much remains.

Champagne lips and tired eyes under endless velvet skies — a love living only for the highs.

And if everything we love  is considered art  then our love is  the greatest masterpiece.

There is a part of you I can't entirely forget - where my memories grow flowers and our past outreaches the gates of my garden; where the words I rather forget become a book of regret.

She lived with too many ghosts inside her mind - maybe that's why she became one herself in the end.

And I kept each piece that the night offered me - for the night was full of you.

For the ink is the same each day - but the words are blooming in colours  no one has ever seen - for my words are flowers,  and your love is a garden.

What our love dreads the most is the fear of never loving - not the thought of following the wrong heart.

I touched each star you collected for me in vain; Only to see my sky fade  inside the glimmer of a dream.

And between all  those eternities you realise that art & love my be the only things  that stay long enough  inside one's soul to make an impression.

While others feared the ghosts of the past, she fell in love with them.

Art completes our hearts.

Shallow are the hearts that bloom beside empty dreams.

It is a choice to slow down and live for yourself. To leave a life of consumerism for one of creativity and reciprocity. To lay down the imposed need for more, and instead be content with what we have. The cottagecore lifestyle is one of simplicity and mindfulness that removes a lot of the distractions of modern life, giving us more peace and joy and allowing our magick to flourish in new, more connected ways than it ever has before.