Ei, the one half of Raiden Shogun.
Sade Olutola
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her

⁂
Monterey Bay Aquarium
Claire Keane
Xuebing Du
Misplaced Lens Cap

titsay
Game of Thrones Daily
sheepfilms
Today's Document
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
tumblr dot com
ojovivo
occasionally subtle
$LAYYYTER
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open

oozey mess

No title available
almost home

seen from Canada

seen from United States
seen from Poland
seen from United Kingdom

seen from United States
seen from Türkiye
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Argentina

seen from Germany

seen from Malaysia

seen from United States
seen from United Kingdom
seen from Germany
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia

seen from United States
seen from Netherlands

seen from United States

seen from Malaysia
@oddthesea
Ei, the one half of Raiden Shogun.
So I might have just been starting to read a lot more webtoons...
And I happen to have stumbled upon this webtoon entitled Ghost Wife...
Might have lost a lot of sleep over it...
Heh :3
Might make more of these as the time goes by. :3
an essay about philippine poverty and its existence;
There comes a time where a young child would be introduced to the concept of money. Be it the time where the child gets gifts of money or was given coins to buy candy with, it has started happening earlier now with material things being used to pacify the younger generation. Soon, they would also be taught about the importance of money, and about the lack of it in our country. Poverty, as they say, is what strikes the country in the core and damages the people living in it. Poverty is the hypothetical ocean we cannot swim through. Poverty is what we cannot handle. We are taught about so many misconceptions about poverty that our positivity that we could withstand it have dimmed to the point where it seemed hopeless and that hopelessness demanded we give up. If we do, however, does the Philippines really have a chance? Is immobility the answer to the problems we have?
Filipinos are fully capable of handling opportunities given to them which is why they seek for it elsewhere. Sure, the Philippines is depicted as a very poor country with little opportunities peeking from the clouds, but the limitations do not hinder the people in the country. Filipinos are capable, especially when they equip their most powerful tool: stubborn will to progress. Poverty cannot and should not dim the light of stubborn will that Filipinos have; it is one of the core personalities in Filipinos that none of us were ever going to just give up on something. Not even poverty can, just like how Filipinos show resiliency in the face of natural disasters. Opportunities, no matter how small, still work out encouragement to the Filipinos who grab them. Time changes everything, as like others say, even the limit of opportunities one can take.
Time is not limited to the hands of the clock; it is so much more than what can be counted. Time solves and creates problems, and it is out of our reach. The good thing? Is that it changes things for the better too. Time creates the future we mold, and for some, it may not be foreseeable. Unsightly, but it is the reality that needs to be changed.
Poverty is often linked to the misconception that change is not foreseeable. We would always frown at the word poverty because it is mostly what we think of others that are below the middle-class income family line. It is socially accepted that when you can’t afford what others can, you are impoverished, to the point that your future may not be changeable, especially not by staying in the same country that counts your achievements and dismisses the rest. It was never “Filipinos in the Philippines excel at this!” but always “Filipinos who are not accustomed to living in the Philippines and have long found their own opportunities abroad are the best!”, as if the people who reside in the Philippines with more than average achievements aren’t worthy a title displayed on tv as the others who have left the country. It sounds bitter but from my point of view, it is something that needs to be called out for.
Change is something that is inevitable. We cannot determine when it comes, and when it goes. We can only determine what there is to change because evolving with time leads us to better opportunities, and it is about time to find the opportunities in the country from whence we came from. Empowerment is one of the best ways to encourage our own people to shine from within the Philippines, evading the push to find better chances out there. I believe we, Filipinos, also can benefit from our own country’s opportunities and that the pre-existing chances could be brought out of its shell to be reformed and be known across the globe.
In the video we watched in preparation to write this essay, I could see and tell how we keep on pushing others – even foreigners – to think about how poor we are, about how the chances here are less than what can sustain a family. It was insulting. It was devastating. It was, in my perspective, depressing. The people who should have been encouraged, was discouraged about seeing the Filipinos suffering – they get encouraged to seek out, rather than in the country for the work they can do to afford a middle-class family income. How the video describes that Filipino dreams are dimmed by poverty, how the inflexible work time and the much cheaper pay rate of Filipinos – it is, in itself, an insulting view about the Filipinos. All the more so when I heard the vlogger tell her viewers that if they ever see or complain about their lives being in a pinch, they should look at the Philippines and see how we fair. My being a Filipino shriveled in embarrassment. Is this what we really prefer to be depicted? An impoverished country whose people are left bare at the end of the day after working out the only opportunities they were offered within the country. It is an outrage. It is something intolerable. Toxic positivity, in any way and form, should never be encouraged.
Depicting real people having real problems is not a problem, but it is simply a delicate topic that may persuade others to think otherwise, rather than be encouraged to think what you wish they would. Let’s be more mindful about how we talk about our country, our president, and the state of our welfare. We should speak up but never humiliate, especially by encouraging toxic positivity. Poverty is not the problem; it is the lack of change in the attitude towards the country. We can all make it if we tried. Let’s do our best, because this is the country our ancestors fought tooth and nail – and more – and we should not let it collapse. Time and time again, we must remind ourselves that our country is not poor; we were blessed with a country whose natural resources are abundant. We must make proper use of it, take care of it, and be proud of who we are and where we came from.
The universe was so pretty. There was something surreal about it that it draws you in, only to remind you that they are real. That they exist. That they were visible, intangible celestial beings.
When I visited the National Planetarium, that was all I could think about. I stood there in awe of the replicated versions of the planets I could only gaze at from afar, though I don't think it's advisable to stare at the stars. Ha-ha.
As I stared up at the glowing planets and the ceilings dusted with stars and walls decorated with nebulae, all I could do was be in awe. It was all so pretty. It later dawned on me that this might be thr closest I could ever get to seeing actual stars or planets, and even though it saddened me, I took the time to ghink it was a good thing.
I remember how the light show wasn't working the day we went to visit. But it's okay, I would come back to see it. Sadly, in a long while, for a much longer while, I won't be able to come see the stars. I won't be able to gaze up at them and hope I were one of them.
The events that unfolded over the past 24 hours in Atlanta were not isolated incidents. Hate crimes against Asian Americans have increased nearly 150% in the US in the last year.
Last June, in the wake up of yet another uprising in hate crimes committed by white supremacists, we released the following statement:
White supremacists, Nazis, and other purveyors of hate can fully fuck off. They are not welcome here.
These words are as true today as they were then. We stand with the Asian American community. If you see hate speech on Tumblr, please report it. That shit is not tolerated here.
To help the survivors and families of yesterday’s hate crimes, please consider donating to a nonprofit like the Atlanta branch of Asian Americans Advancing Justice if you can. If you can’t, consider spreading the word. We’ll list more resources and reblogs over on @action as we find them.
As always, please make sure you are taking care of yourself as well. If you’re struggling for any reason, please reach out to any of the free and confidential counseling services listed here.
Thank you, Tumblr!
a salmon in the tree
There is a saying that salmon is one of the wisest fish in the sea
For me they are weird.
Fish, they do not have a conscious mind, but salmon *remembers* things
Salmon goes back to the things that *there was*
They go back to the things that were safe.
But right now, that state
That state is gone.
You see, even the salmon cannot swim to where they were to relive and give
To give a new generation the life they knew to be safe.
Just like us.
The us part is very weird.
Philosophical people would say, especially since we’re Filipinos,
A “there is no us”
But as a country, there is.
We are salmon whose freedom is stolen,
Safety long forgotten.
This virus hasn’t changed, but we have
And sad to say,
But people just really shouldn’t have.
The us part, as students, make me feel like a salmon
A salmon in a tree.
A salmon belongs in the water, obviously,
So why would I be a salmon in a tree?
The lives of the people
The deaths and the mistakes
The country we live in has fallen
Fallen to the hands of the things we cannot see.
How could we become salmon again?
People say salmon is a very good fish
They, like other fish, swim upstream, fighting the current
Like the frontliners, fighting this disease
But I’m a salmon in a tree.
People say the virus will go away,
Hang in there, eat well
Stay safe, keep it in.
But I’m a salmon in a tree.
People say to study and you’ll get there
There is wherever they think is best
But I’m a salmon in a tree.
I’m stuck
I’m stuck
I’m stuck.
I’m stuck
As a salmon in a tree.
from a reflection paper, to you.
If I were to tell the story about a genuine and meaningful interaction that happened recently, I think I could talk about my Discord life. I made an account three years ago, but never was really active until recently. I could blame games for it, but the specific people I encountered on Discord that I wanted to talk about today were ones I set out to find, apart from games. I found them on Disboard and I’d never regretted it.
Kopi Café was one of the homes I’ve found in Discord that made me realize a lot of things, that I’ve found contentment with. One of the few people there who have the most genuine hearts are my friends, Miro and Moon. Upon entry to the server, they were the first ones who greeted me and then invited me to do things with them. I felt the same rhythm with them, as if I was meeting parts of me in different people; like with Moon, her enthusiasm brings me to remember the times I was active in greeting people and making friends; with Miro, I remembered how smart I was and how much I like to deduce and have ideas and have a healthy mind frame. There were others, of course, that touched my heart in their little ways. I have never felt more full of love than ever.
The time came around about a week ago. It has only been a month since I entered the server but I’ve been around to greet people and be active enough to talk to the first people there.
A bit of context: Moon is the owner of the server (which lead me to remember myself even more, because I was also hands on to my own, gaming-themed server.) and she allowed me to host podcasts we call Usapan sa Kopihan. These sessions were the most helpful for me, because through these I could express myself with people my age, sharing my opinions and my experiences and it was a rest from just going through the motions of every day life.
I’ve lived a life wherein I was always in the backseat. I didn’t even recognize that the car was spinning out of the road until my eyes were opened. It was funny like that. Like a certain spark just happened and your eyes were opened, like in that game called Detroit: Become Human, where the androids overdeveloped and had feelings. In my case, realizing my feelings were real was the spark, and the fire that keeps it sparking is my new found friends, who, every single day, reminds me I am enough and that I didn’t need to love too much just to be loved in return.
The social impact this has on me is great. Because of the love and acceptance they showed to me, I am more willing to find love and acceptance from myself for myself. I now know myself enough to say that I have never even tried to do that before, that I’ve always sought for someone else to give me the love I lack and the love I never give myself.
I hope to give back the love they give to me by loving myself. Even though it sounds selfish, Cavetown always reminds me that loving myself doesn’t make me a narcissist. I will use the love that was given to me and the contentment I feel to pour out more love to people who needs them, all the while taking care of myself as well.
Thank you, Moon and Miro, and my friends from my server, Identified. I love you all.
There comes a time where knocks are very loud. Angry. Noisy. Like punching bags made out of wood. But the door is my heart and it has grown tired.
I have a speech but I’m speechless, broken glass scattered in big pieces. I never was ready so I’ll watch you go.
Dirty, sobbing in the streets. Running, running away from the home I felt with you.
I am so sorry, my love.
from me to you, a letter
When I first told a person that could help me about what I was going through, I was terrified. I had it all planned out; the first time I would be offered a chance to, I would ask for help. That was why I was so excited to go to school. It wasn’t just because I really wanted to go to school after so many years of being stuck at home, but it was also because it would be where the opportunity that I would be able to get help without being judged for it is. I’ve researched about it before and learned that guidance counselors were the ones you go to when you’re bothered, and since I couldn’t bring myself to tell my parents, I took the courage to ask help from the school guidance counselor. You know, the whole thing about how it was easier to talk to strangers than the people you know because there would be less judgement, and if they were to judge, you could always turn the other cheek and then cut them off.
But this wasn’t the case. It wasn’t easy. The time I asked if I could see the school guidance counselor, I got the ‘look’ from my classmates. It was, of course, weird that a new student at school would just ask to see the guidance counselor with no real reason. It was a sort of know-how that you only go to see guidance counselors at school was because you did something wrong or because you were a troubled child, and I was at the time. It was also around that time that I figured out that I wouldn’t do well with my classmates for more reason than just being the new kid in the class. I didn’t know why they had to judge – I mean, it was me who asked for it for myself – but they did, but that didn’t stop me. I waited seven long years to be able to ask for help, several times then that I tried to do things that would make me happy, even though I knew it wasn’t right.
When she would ask me why I was sad, my head started spinning. Should I lie? Should I lie? But if I did, what was asking for help going to do for me?
I still lied.
You know that principle that when you leave out the truth it’s a lie and when you say only half of it, it still is a lie? I told her I said I thought I was depressed. I didn’t tell her I had trouble sleeping at night, that there were garbled voices in the back of my mind, that I was struggling with very unhealthy coping mechanisms and over the roof self-expectations. I just told her I looked up why sad people are called depressed and I was one of them.
Now I do love my guidance counselor at the time; she was very nice, smelled lovely, and was always offering help when I needed it. But it struck me that she had the same look in her eyes, the one where she was mocking my words. I smiled and, as usual, I swallowed my pride to tell her that I was one, repeating myself, like I repeated myself to every single person I come across the internet and to my parents. It was like an inner voice kept shaking me to reach out, that I knew life was not just about my feelings. I wanted help, I needed help. In one form or the other, I’m going to get help.
Seeing the guidance counselor did not instantly make me feel better. I was terrified, and anxiety told me my classmates were talking about me behind my back. I had no way of telling whether it was wrong or right. I didn’t know anything. It just didn’t make sense.
My life at home was okay. My mom and my dad said they wouldn’t be mad at me for failing some tests, which made me want to pass them even more. On some days, I come home crying. On most days, I walk home to swallow the pain and the rejection I felt at school. It felt disgusting to taste rejection in my mouth, like it was a shot glass of poison. I swallowed it anyway.
My guidance counselor saw me for a day every other week. Of course, she was also busy tending to other students. I always wonder how they were and if they also lied to her when they didn’t want to face the truth. The truth is a bitter thing for people who force themselves not to see it.
Anyway, she told me stuff to control my emotions and my outbursts, to aid my sensory overload. She also talked to my teachers to let me have some air when I needed it, and occasionally, I did. I was careful not to stay out too long though, but it was good enough air to feel whenever I’m in a spiral of emotions.
She and I tried to contact my parents to help me get the help I needed. My parents, although seeming to understand that I was a little sad, did not take me to the doctor immediately. I felt more of a burden then than I did before I asked for help. It made me scared to ask for help again, because the weight of the eyes on me was wearing me thin.
So I didn’t. I stopped asking to see the guidance counselor, I started doing more things that make me feel things, sometimes it’s not even happiness anymore. I want to put it lightly but I leapt out of a moving vehicle because I needed the adrenaline and the feeling that I could be strong like Tris Prior, but what I think she was strong about was strong. She was strong because she knows who she is and who she wanted to be. Sheer willpower didn’t get her there. She didn’t teleport to where she is like I was thinking I could.
Coupled with the fact that I got into a relationship with a guy from the Netherlands and my ever-good grades, no one could’ve realized I was sad. No one but my aunt. Besides being the person that talked my parents into letting me have my first, legal online boyfriend, she was also the only person who believed that I was depressed when I said so. To this day, I wonder why she took my word for it when every other person just dismissed it as a phase, but oh am I so thankful for it and her. She was one awesome aunt, and up until now, she’s by my side as we try to get through the pandemic together with my cousin.
The second time I asked for help, my aunt paid for it. It was surreal. And expensive. Way too expensive for my good.
It was in a private hospital where we rarely step foot in because it was an expensive hospital. We waited for a while, and then I got face to face with a psychiatrist.
I was weird and tingly and nervous. What with it being really expensive and rated per minute. I was scared to even admit anything while my parents are around, so they answered pretty much a lot for me until it was time to do a write up about what I was feeling.
The results came in five minutes later and I was, as I remembered, really depressed and anxious. It was about three years ago. I remember this because I was seventeen when I dated Wiljan and when we both came around to having medication. Three years ago, and I still need help now.
If things had been different and help hadn’t been available, I would probably be dead by now. I had no real reason to be sad. I had everything I could ever want, so why don’t I feel the way I should?
If you read this whole thing, I want you to understand that your feelings are valid. I’m just another person on the billions of people on the internet but I hope I just, even for a little bit, told you through my life story that you’re not alone, and:
Ø Asking for help is not wrong
Ø People will judge no matter what, so ask anyways.
Ø Taking medication does not make you inferior to those who do not.
Ø You are loved by someone, maybe not the ones you wanted to love you, but there will always be one who does. Always remember that even the villains of the stories are loved.
I think I have begun to like a teensy part of who I am. I think I have begun to like the part where I’m not as charming as I want to be.
oddthesea
I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, and something came up: why are breakups not a joint decision?
Once you spotted someone you actually like, you ask them out, bring them anything they like, per se, but there wouldn’t be a date unless the other agrees to go with you. It’s a joint decision. You ask, they agree, then things happen in between. You chose them and they chose you.
Breakups are pretty much worst case scenario when it comes to people in relationships. It’s just the one thing they never would’ve thought about. When you enter into a relationship and get a whiff of what feels and seems like love, you don’t ever want it to stop. Ever. Because everyone, at some point, wants to be loved. It’s just being human.
I want to digress and fit this into the mix of questions I’ve been meaning to ask: if Colin’s theorem doesn’t really work, then why are there people who hurt their supposed significant others by actually being the Dumper and them the Dumpee? Why does this need to happen and why can it be expressed in mathematical terms, even with a child prodigy in a messed up story that relates to what I’m actually going through?
As John Green put it, “breaking up isn’t something that gets done to you; it’s something that happens with you.” So if that was so, then breaking up is really, intensely a joint decision still.
My head is spinning.
If Colin Singleton was abashed when he figured out that his memory failed with his sixth Katherine (as I believe), then memories are what you believe them to be, rather than memories themselves.
And that leads me to a some sort of conclusion: if you love someone, you would feel it, even in your bones. If so, how could the person you love so deep that their lakes become your oceans just not love you enough to stay?
Emotional First Aid by Guy Winch, a Psychologist, from TED Talks, notable words.
Our minds and our feelings aren’t the trustworthy friends we thought they were. They’re more like a really moody friend, who could be so supportive one minute and really unpleasant the next.
I once worked with this woman, who, after twenty years of marriage and an extremely ugly divorce, was finally ready for her first date. She had met this guy online, and he seemed nice and he seemed successful and most importantly, he seemed really into her.
So she was very excited; she bought a new dress and they met at an upscale New York City bar for a drink. 10 minutes into the date, the man stands up and says, “I’m not interested,” and walks out.
Rejection is extremely painful. The woman was so hurt, she couldn’t move. All she could do was call a friend, and here’s what the friend said, “Well, what do you expect? You have big hips, you have nothing interesting to say. Why would a handsome, successful man like that ever go out with a loser like you?”
Shocking, right, that a friend can be so cruel? But it would be much less shocking if I told you it wasn’t the friend that said that; it was what the woman said to herself, and that is something we all do. Especially after a rejection. We all start thinking of all our faults and all our shortcomings, what we wish we were, what we wish we weren’t. We call ourselves names, maybe not as harshly but we all do it and it’s interesting that we do because our self esteem is already hurting; why would we want to go and damage it even further? Right, we wouldn’t make a physical injury worse on purpose, you wouldn’t get a cut on your arm and decide, ‘Oh, I know! I’m gonna take a knife and see how much deeper I can make it?’ But we do that with psychological injuries all the time. Why? Because of poor emotional hygiene, because we don’t prioritize our psychological health.
We know from dozens of studies that when your self esteem is lower, you are more vulnerable to stress, to anxiety, and that failure and rejections hurt more and it takes longer to recover from them. So when you get rejected, the first thing you should do is to revive your self esteem, not join fight club and beat it into a pulp.
When you are in emotional pain, treat yourself with the same compassion you would expect from a truly good friend. We have to catch our unhealthy psychological habits and change them.
…
You know, a hundred years ago, people began practicing personal hygiene and life expectancy rates rose by over 50% in just a matter of decades. I believe our quality of life could rise just as dramatically if we all practice emotional hygiene. Thank you.
Pick a Pickle Out of a Pickle Jar
Society and the way the world works is like picking a pickle from a pickle jar. There are bad pickles and good pickles, and you have to choose from them. Sometimes we choose the good ones and they taste like power. Every pickle is different from each other, and that isn’t something majority of the people in society accepts. The outcome of it isn’t pretty at all.
I remember from when I was younger, the way that Mr. Mayor would often ask the Power Puff Girls to open his jar of pickles, or actually anyone at all to, of course, get a pickle. It’s something we were exposed to when we were younger, and maybe its purpose was to show that if we could not do something, we could ask for help for it. But the real world doesn’t work like that. It works as if the world has been conspiring against you, what with its desire to take the good pickles from you or make you break the pickle jar trying to get one out. It does not help you become who you wanted to be, unless you become a salmon who go against the current.
Society is not something I want to be suffocated with, as if we were sardines in a tin can. Society is something I cannot escape, though. It’s something that’s been there a hundred years before me, and a hundred more in my future. So pick a pickle I go, hoping for the best. Picking a pickle and hoping society doesn’t take up all the rest.
Boomerang by Why Don’t We
For Him by Troye Sivan
Lost my Mind by Alice Kristiansen
24 Hours by New Rules