#Human Motivation

[omegaphilosophia]

The Philosophy of Inspiration

The Philosophy of Inspiration explores the origins, nature, and implications of those moments of sudden insight, creativity, or motivation that seem to arise spontaneously or from beyond the self. Philosophers, artists, theologians, and psychologists have long debated whether inspiration is a rational process, a divine gift, or an unconscious force.

Key Themes in the Philosophy of Inspiration:

Divine or Transcendent Source: In many ancient traditions, especially in Greek philosophy (e.g., Plato), inspiration was seen as divine possession or communication from the Muses. The inspired individual was thought to be a vessel through which truth or beauty flowed from a higher realm.

Romanticism and the Sublime: Romantic philosophers and poets emphasized inspiration as a powerful, emotional, and almost mystical state, often sparked by nature, love, or suffering. It’s tied to the concept of the sublime—overwhelming experiences that transcend reason.

Creativity and the Unconscious: Later thinkers like Carl Jung and Nietzsche reframed inspiration as arising from the depths of the unconscious mind. Rather than divine origin, it was seen as the eruption of deeply buried archetypes, instincts, or truths into consciousness.

Existentialist View: Existentialist philosophers suggest inspiration arises when individuals confront the absurd or meaningless and choose to create meaning. Inspiration, then, becomes an act of freedom and authenticity.

Modern Perspectives: In contemporary thought, inspiration is often linked to cognitive processes such as analogical thinking, intuition, and neurodivergence. Some argue it is a form of pattern recognition accelerated by emotional salience or novelty.

Ethical and Political Dimensions: Inspiration can motivate moral action, innovation, or resistance. Thinkers like Gandhi, Martin Luther King Jr., or Simone Weil considered inspiration a moral force—linked to conscience, love, or justice.

Philosophical Questions:

Is inspiration a passive reception or an active creation?

Can inspiration be cultivated, or is it spontaneous?

What is the relationship between inspiration and truth, beauty, or virtue?

Is inspiration accessible to all, or a rare gift?

In essence, the philosophy of inspiration interrogates what it means to be moved—whether artistically, spiritually, morally, or intellectually—and what that reveals about the human condition.

[offtovisityourmother]

Holy fucking shit. This. This is my favorite post on this site to date. It perfectly states a lot of the things I believe about the economy in a way that most people won't point at say "hahaha naive dumbass insane idiot". It's everything I've been saying based on my beliefs and what I've read for YEARS. This. This is something that shows what's important and what's wrong in our society. Thank you, Tumblr, for this.

[pastored123]

Why Does Humanity Plagued by the Need for Order?  

By: Rev. Ed Schneider, MPTh It is perpetually upsetting to me to observe humanity’s stated desire for personal freedom is consistently thwarted by inflicted personal violence, cultic anarchy and seemingly illogical wars. The truth is humanity is constantly growing in its fundamental knowledge of the world around them. They are growing. They are slower than I would hope for but growing,…

[artisticdivasworld]

Embracing Choice Theory: A Guide to Better Living

Today, I want to introduce you to a transformative concept that has the potential to significantly alter your perception of life and relationships. It’s called Choice Theory, developed by the renowned psychiatrist William Glasser. This theory is not just a psychological concept; it’s a roadmap to understanding ourselves and navigating the complexities of human behavior. The Essence of Choice…

[d3rpydoods]

Still aliveeee- barely, life's a lot right now ಥ_ಥ

Anyway have this, it's been brewing for months but i finally got around to finishing it now that Johnny's in the game - i call it "divide and conquer" 😏

[js-dragonart]

Grand maester Orwyle just wants to do his job in peace, but the greens won´t leave his patient alone.

[ozzgin]

Yandere!Priest x Reader x Yandere!"Angel" content: gender neutral reader, based on Midnight Mass

You didn't think you'd return to that crumbling shell of a church after so many years. Hell, you weren't even religious. What dragged your feet all the way to God's holy ground was nothing but sheer curiosity: who in their right mind would've willingly moved to a bumfuck town in the middle of nowhere?

The newly appointed priest was young and handsome, with a pious smile and a welcoming gaze. His voice was soft as he introduced himself and gave the good ol' speech of an open-door policy. Everyone was welcomed, believers and nonbelievers alike. God loved all equally. As the liturgy ended and people shuffled out of their seats, you felt his hand resting over your shoulder. He asked you to stay behind. Nothing outlandish by any means; he could tell you weren't all that interested in theological talk, yet he appreciated your honest nature. He asked if you'd mind passing by every now and then, and you unconsciously nodded in agreement.

Yet, there was something off about this Monsignor. For once, he spoke about others as if he'd known them for a lifetime. The way he greeted the elders and laughed with them almost made you forget you were no longer facing the previous man in charge, who'd left on a pilgrimage and never returned. Whatever happened to the poor bastard, you wondered?

With the recent arrival came other peculiar happenings. The town drunkard vanished abruptly one evening, only to be found completely pale and drained of blood a couple of days later. Night didn't feel as peaceful anymore, and you'd been plagued by the feeling of being watched. You once expressed your suspicions to the priest, who was quick to comfort you - perhaps too kindly for your own liking. He stroked your hair with foreign affection, urging you to gather your courage.

"Do you believe in Angels?"

You've been toying with his words quite often lately. Why would he suddenly bring it up? He knows you don't care for spiritual nonsense. His stare was sincere, almost anxious. Your heart clamps tightly in your chest, restless and eager. Monsignor certainly knows more than he lets on - there was no abstractness to his question.

At last, you have your answers. Shuffling through some old book you found in the clergy house, one photo catches your attention. It is a dated photograph of your town's previous priest, back in his youth. It is the very man currently holding a sermon across the road. What on Earth did he find during his pilgrimage? More importantly, what curse did he bring over to your small town?

Your throat constricts, suddenly aware of a looming presence behind you. The creature standing in front of your eyes is anything but human. Tattered, fleshy wings, grotesque fangs splitting its snout open, and long, sharp claws dragging across the floor. It approaches with predatory interest, huffing in amusement upon noticing your trembling knees.

"No! You cannot feed on this one," the Monsignor demands with authority. He's catching his breath, holding onto the doorframe for support. He must've sensed his beloved Angel awakened from its slumber and hurried back to his humble home. "We had an agreement, I recall," he scolds, becoming more unsure. "This one is mine."

The tall Beast considers your shivering form, lowering its head closer to your level.

"Is that so," it challenges in a hoarse voice. "I thought you're not supposed to lust after other humans, Father. I'm saving you from sin, you see, by keeping...(Y/N), is it?"

It extends a gargantuan hand towards you.

"Come, which will it be? A perverted priest, or an Angel to look after you?"

"You're no Angel," you want to shout, yet the words crumble out in a petrified whisper.

[lilybug-02]

Gotta be brave

Bug Fact: Rest and sleep is necessary for many species of arthropods. The more sleep a bug gets, the more likely it is to live longer.

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Volume 2 Masterpost

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[girl-that-writes]

Write trashy poems, make garbage art, sing off-tune, dance disgracefully, make wonky pottery, take bad pictures, act terribly, design horrid things, write raucous melodies. The world won't stop moving if you make "hideous" art, but keep repressing your innate human instinct to create, and your soul might. You're worth so much more than that.

[zorangezest]

Please Please Please may I humbly ask for a crumb of your human soundwave 🙏 Its one of my most fav designs ive seen so far of this cryptid metal man

Please and Thank you, love your art soso much Im gnawing on it with love

I actually have a few human soundwave designs! I wasn’t sure which one to pick for the ask so take them all, please don’t chew him!!! you will get tetanus!!!!!

and there’s this one with the gas mask that I designed to cope with finals…hes out there somewhere in a post-apocalyptic world maybe??

[deepdiveastro]

[crabsnpersimmons]

soft moon got me feeling soft

plus a bonus version with the NDSY Y/N (aka Comet!):

[wordsmith30]

You know what makes me the most upset about the use of AI in our culture? It's not just removing artists from art or devaluing human creativity -- it's treating people like they're disposable.

Oh, you're not that special. We have computers to do that now. If you died tomorrow, we have your image. We have your voice. We have your biometric data. We can just duplicate you, it's no problem. Who needs flesh and blood? Who needs agency and free thought? Who needs the human soul? You're just a tool. And when we're done with you, we'll just toss you aside and find someone else.

Creatives, listen to me, and listen to me good: you have a voice and it matters. There is no one in the history of the world who is exactly like you, in this time or this place. There is no one who thinks like you, acts like you, speaks like you, moves like you. There is nobody else built like you. Nobody else with your unique experiences and outlook of the world. You are a product of history, of culture, of art, of love, of pain, of possibility. Don't let them take that from you.

[eggsistential-breakdown]

Been loving all the human Bill designs and 2D Bill parent designs so here's some HUMAN 2D BILL PARENTS

[starry-bi-sky]

Danny's used to finding lost kids in Amity.

The ghostly kind, that is. But the human variant happens on occasion too, usually when a too-lax parent takes their eyes off their child for far too long in the park. But he digresses.

It happens more often than he would like. He's not really sure what the family dynamics between ghosts are like in the Zone, he hasn't gotten around to asking about it. Although, it's not like he would be able to anyways — hard to ask questions about something you don't know much about. So far, it all seems kinda... laissez-faire.

Point is: Danny is used to finding lost kids in Amity.

It's since lost its novelty on him. Kids are kids everywhere, dead or alive, human or not. And kids are curious, and portals between the Infinite Realms and the Mortal World are rare in both dimensions. The braver ones will want to explore the things that are new and unknown to them, and they'll do so without any thought of what might happen.

The lost kids Danny finds are, more often than not, just kids who got curious about the portal and got too close to it, and ended up falling through. And in their panic and haste, accidentally fled the lab and got lost in the city.

Like right now.

The noise he makes as he squats to the ground, his knees bracketing his shoulders, is... well, the best way he could describe it is that it kind of sounds like a pigeon coo, or the trill a cat makes when you touch it while it's sleeping. It's as soft and as quiet as he could make it, while still being loud enough to be heard through his mask.

Ghostspeak is not a language that you can learn... technically speaking. That's because the majority of Ghostspeak relies heavily on core vibrations, of which Danny and other humans don't have. The verbal components that Ghostspeak does have also aren't done with the human vocal chords in mind, so most of the sounds Danny can't make.

...Except for a few.

The little noise he makes whips through the tunnel both him and the kid are in. The boy's terrified sniffling abruptly stops, if only because it's cut off by a teeny, startled gasp, and him snapping his head up at the sound.

Danny, crouched reminiscently like a frog, and a solid six feet away, tilts his head just slightly. He hunches his shoulders in and dips a little closer to the ground — it feels a bit awkward on his back, but he's found that moving unnervingly, even if it has to be animalistic, tends to help a lot in situations like these.

Lots of ghosts thrive off being weird and off-putting and inhuman; acting like one usually gets a lost ghost to calm down faster than if he didn't.

He can't parse how old the boy is — physically, he looks about eight, but he could always be older — but he can see shimmering, blue tear tracks streaking down his face. There's a snake-like seam stretching from both corners of his mouth and connecting up to his jaw, and little patches of scales around his yellow-eyes.

The boy's eyes go wide at the sight of him, before his pupils abruptly shrink into needles. The temperature plummets and the boy's mouth peels back to reveal two curved, deadly-looking fangs, and a perfunctory hiss comes out of his mouth.

"Go away!"

Danny does not go away, goosebumps rake down his arms and spine, and he cranes his neck until he hears it pop. The ringing in his ears subside, he braces and reaches back— "Ḩ̶̢̤͉̜̔̕- H̶̩́͋e̶̘̋̅̈̀ļ̵͎͉̑̒̚p̵͙̫͉̏."

He can't help the soft grunt that escapes him after, swaggling his head left and right like a lion shaking out its mane. His mask hides his grimace — he generates enough of his own ectoplasm to understand Ghostspeak and to have a few intrinsic abilities of his own, but compared to an actual ghost, it's minuscule.

It's like trying to speak in a register lower than your throat can handle; on a technical level he can in some aspects, but it still hurts to do. It's one of the few actual words he knows how to say, most are just sounds. Rumbles and trills and purrs that he's somewhat perfected.

The boy's face scrunches up, he shrinks a little away from Danny, looking both equally wary and judgmental. Which.. yeah, fair. That's the usual response. The boy croaks: "What?"

Danny tilts slightly forward — only enough to shift from a crouch to a partial kneel. He points at the boy, and then slowly draws his finger back to point at himself. "H̶̩́͋e̶̘̋̅̈̀ļ̵͎͉̑̒̚p̵͙̫͉̏," He repeats, throat straining, "ḩ̴̲̘̺͗͂ě̵̳̀̎͠͝��̝l̶̬͈͍̳͂̓͆p̷̢̡̧̛̩̟̆̅͐͘."

He reaches back and tries to flare what little ecto-signature he has, and follows up with a low-rumbling noise he knows for certain means 'safecomfortsafe'.

Danny points to the exit of the tunnel: "H̵̼̹͎̊̏́͑̂͘͜ǫ̴̠̺̜̞́̕͜m̵̪̋e̸̢̞͔̞̺͛̽."

That seems to catch the boy's attention, his head perks up and his folded, pointed ears flap slightly. Unsteadily, his knees draw away from his chest, some of his distrust melting away like frost under the sun. "You- you know where home is?"

Danny can't say the word 'yes', its out of his range and his capabilities. But he knows how to mimic the sound of 'pleased', so he presses his cheek to the ground — ignoring the unpleasant clack it makes as mask thunks against concrete — and nods, replicating the trill.

The boy looks hopeful, a crack in the ice, before suddenly remembering to be wary. He shrivels back again, his brows furrowing and eyes narrow. "Who are you?"

"H̷͇͚̹͝e̶͉͑͗͒̂͝ĺ̸̡͇̟̅p̸̰̕." Danny repeats, because he doesn't know how to say "Phantom" in ghostspeak, and not every ghost knows English — Wulf is the first to come to mind in that regard. He points again to the exit: "H̵͈͉̖̳͚̾̀͐̄̀ö̶͖͑̄͝ḿ̷̨̭̬͋͆̃́e̵̺͑."

"Is that all you know how to say?" The boy asks, (more like demands) "Help and home?"

Danny nods again, he sits back up and slowly crawls back outwards from the tunnel, gesturing for the boy to follow. "H̴̤̊o̶̢̳̻͓̿m̵̘̘̀e̸̡̝̼̓̉," is all he says, "H̴̤̊o̶̢̳̻͓̿m̵̘̘̀e̸̡̝̼̓̉."

He only crawls back a few steps before stopping — he's not actually going to leave until he's certain the kid was going to follow him. And so far he wasn't moving, yet.

They stare at each other for a few long seconds, Danny watching expectantly. Emotions run rapid and rabbit across the kid's face, flickering between uncertainty and consideration. After a few minutes, victoriously, the boy drops his legs and begins to follow.

Danny rewards him with a very pleased trill. Perhaps some of his joy bleeds through his signature— the lines in the boy's face disappear for a moment as a little giggle escapes him.

"What are you?" The boy asks him once they're closer to the entrance, Danny holds his arm out to prevent the boy from walking out, and then peers out of the tunnel for stragglers. It's the middle of the night in Amity Park, but you never really know. "You don't feel like a ghost."

Ah, well. Danny glances at the boy, how does he explain liminality to someone who might not grasp the concept, and might not even know English? He barely understands himself what he is.

Danny shrugs, and points to himself, "H̷e̵l̷p̴."