estudentetser diaries

because life's too short to fit a page

[quoteastic]

Don't get me wrong. You still mean the world to me, you're just not worth the fight anymore.

[dxstroymx]

i still rehearse conversations that never happened.

i still check the sky for signs i don’t believe in.

and when someone says it gets better,

i smile like i know what they mean.

can i tell you something?

i think i’m afraid to get better.

because then i’d have to admit

how bad it really was.

[purr-in-ink]

[verycrowetic]

What If

“What if the sun didn’t rise tomorrow?” “What?”

“What if the sun didn’t rise?” “What if the world ended?”

“Well, isn’t that the same thing?” “I suppose, but you can’t live on ‘What if’.”

“Well, no, you can’t. But it’s an interesting thought.”

“For example, what if the next time you blinked, was the last time you opened your eyes.” “Must you be so morbid?”

“Why must Death be morbid? You’ve never died before.” “No, I haven’t. But-”

“What if Death was sweeter than Life? Free and liberating. As far as we know it could be paradise!”

“That’d be such a shocking discovery, right?” “Why, yes…Yes I guess it would. I suppose there is only one way to know.”

“You’re right, but I don’t wish to die. Why there’s so much I want to do! Besides, what if I’m wrong?”

“Which makes me think… You were right.” “Right about what, may I ask?”

“You cannot live, based on ‘What if’s” “No, you can not. But, they do make you wonder…”

-🐦‍⬛

[missinyouiskillingme]

The scary part is I knew exactly how bad you were for me and yet that didn’t stop me from loving you.

— Samantha King, Born to Love, Cursed to Feel

[duxuebing]

Photography by Xuebing Du

Instagram: xuebing.du

[em-dash-press-deactivated202410]

The First Thing You Learn in University Creative Writing Classes

I was very fortunate to major in Creative Writing when I went to college. It was a great experience, but I remember being so nervous when I walked into my first class as a freshman.

I'd been writing stories since elementary school, so I worried that this first class would teach me something wildly different than what I knew about writing. Maybe there was some secret formula to creating characters or mental exercises that immediately dissolved writer's block that you could only learn from a professor.

When my first class ended, I was shocked.

The first thing you learn in a university-level creative writing class?

Read more than you write.

It's that simple. I thought my professor had lost his mind, but the many others that followed always echoed the advice.

The advice then saved my ability to write when I was getting through each day during some of the hardest times of my life.

Pick up the good books. The great books. The terrible books that make you quit reading them because they're so bad.

They will all make your writing stronger.

You'll learn how to write fantastic characters, weave plot lines, and paint worlds with words. You'll also learn what you don't like in someone's writing so you can avoid it in your own.

Even during the periods when I wrote nothing at all, reading kept that love for writing alive in my heart.

It's the best way to reconnect with that passion if you've lost it and the greatest way to develop that skill.

Read more than you write.

Your storylines and characters will thank you later.

[tierras]

isabella vik

[purplemonkeysexgod69]

honey feels quite at home in green tea,

not so much in earl grey.

some things are best enjoyed

alone in their bitterness.

another day, another metaphor.

[litsnaps]

[litsnaps]

[litsnaps]

[letsbelonelytogetherr]

— Nipuna Mehta (via @nipsyyy)

[fy-perspectives]

“Isn't it strange that we talk least about the things we think about most?”

― Charles Lindbergh

[words-and-coffee]

You’ve dreamt about it since you were a kid: a secret, a funeral, a spreading cough, and then it starts—the end. The whole, terrible end. For years, you’ve kept one eye on the shadows swilling above the door, waiting for the arrival of the God of Doom. What to do now that he’s here, sipping coffee in our kitchen? We sneak glares from the sink, mutter apologies when we bump in the hall. He’s an awful guest, of course—tracks blood everywhere, cries when we feed him, screams if we don’t. So we keep the freezer stocked with dumplings, black fruit, beans to last a month. We take turns hefting his bulk, keep him placated with a soundtrack of pickaxes, songs about death camps and microplastics, circular fretting, it’s only a matter of time. When it storms, he yanks open the windows; he polishes our worst parts; steals, constantly. At night, he raps at the wall behind our heads, just as he did for ten thousand nights before he showed up, just as he’ll do for ten thousand nights after. Meanwhile—well, you know. Meanwhile. All our kin is dying at a distance. The coast’s been burning for weeks. Filling the kettle, you catch me humming, The dream that you dream will come true, and we laugh, though nothing’s funny but this: We knew the end was coming here. We knew it, and like idiots—like perfect idiots—we stayed.

Franny Choi, The World Keeps Ending, and the World Goes On: Doom

[imaginemirage]

The loudest of voices are the ones heard, but what of the smallest one, strengthening? What of the orchid in the window, getting just enough light?

Chelsea Hedson

[missinyouiskillingme]

He wasn’t really breaking up with me because we weren’t ever really together. We’d just been two people who helped each other when we needed it and got our hearts fused together along the way.

— Colleen Hoover, It Ends With Us