#writersofinstagram

[letsbeapoemtogether]

Intimacy is not just physical. To crave a persons presence and energy rather than just their body is the purest form of intimacy.

[strokeofserenity]

John Augutus Shedd, “Salt from my Attic.”

[makaylajade-author]

Being a writer is just 97% googling words to make sure they mean exactly what you always assumed they meant.

[asikan]

Ne tuhaf değil mi… ?

Ölümlü bir dünyada, ölümsüzmüş gibi yaşamak.

Her adımda kalıcıymışız gibi davranmak, her nefeste sonsuzluğun bizden yana olduğuna inanmak… “Akıllı” geçinmek, “büyük” sayılmak, bir unvan ya da bir makama sığdırılmak. Oysa hepimiz aynı sona yürüyoruz. Bir gün sessizleşecek sesimiz, bir gün silinecek izimiz.

Peki neden hâlâ kendimizi kandırıyoruz?

Neden birbirimizi küçümseyip, hayatı bir yarış gibi görüp, göğe uzanacak kökler salıyormuş gibi çabalıyoruz? Belki de insan olmanın en büyük yanılgısı bu: Hiç ölmeyecekmiş gibi biriktirmek, ama sanki yarın ölecekmiş gibi hissetmekten korkmak.

Gerçek “büyüklük” belki de geride bırakacağın merhamette, kalplere dokunduğun bir tebessümde, içten bir selamda gizli. Çünkü günün sonunda, ne paran, ne şöhretin, ne de kibrin sana yoldaş olur. Sadece hatıralar ve insanların yüreğinde bıraktığın iz kalır.

Bu fotoğraf, bize sessizce şunu fısıldıyor gibi:

Dur biraz…

Elindeki bardağa, yüzündeki ışığa, göğsündeki nefese bak. Çünkü asıl mucize, “büyük görünmekte” değil, “var olmanın farkına varmakta.”

Ve belki de tek akıllılık, ölümlü olduğunu unutmadan yaşamaktır…!!!!

ASİKAN

[bisireads]

You hit “The End” feeling like a legend… "Then edits hit you like a plot twist 😭

To be honest, how many drafts did your last book take?

Do you have a WIP?

[moonlit-drafts]

Hunger

You learn young how to stretch a meal— how to split a single "good job" into portions small enough to last for years.

At first, you don’t notice the empty chair at the recital, the game, the graduation— you’re too busy scanning the crowd for anyone who might clap just for you.

Then comes the craving: teachers who praise like parents should, lovers who worship like it’s penance, strangers on screens who say "you matter" in exchange for pieces of yourself you didn’t know were currency.

You collect "I love you"s like loose change, hoard them in jars labeled "proof", but the hole in your chest has no bottom— it swallows compliments whole and still growls for more.

You mistake obsession for affection, hands that take for hands that give, because no one taught you the difference between being wanted and being valued.

You apologize for existing while begging the world: "See me, see me, see me—" as if visibility could fill the hollow their neglect carved, as if enough strangers saying "stay" could drown out the echo of your own family’s "go."

The cruelest lie? Thinking you’re the exception— that everyone else was born knowing how to love themselves without a manual, while you’re still tracing the letters of your own name like it’s a language you haven’t earned.

But here’s the truth they never handed you: That hole isn’t yours to fill. Those hands weren’t yours to hold. That love— the kind that stays without being asked, the kind that doesn’t keep score— was never theirs to give.

(One day, you’ll stop setting the table for people who never come. One day, you’ll realize you were always the feast.)

🪑 The chair is empty. You are not.

[stars2sea]

Your

Move sir

Play me wisely

Your loss is forever

Checkmate

☆Stars2Sea~

[cryptonature]

Some new author photos!