#Deep think

[aitan]

Una Rivoluzione Silenziosa, oltre l’hype e la moda del momento.

[sweetiguessso]

Title: The Convergence of Aeons A Mythopoeic Saga

Prologue: The Fractured Realms

The Tree Yggdrasil shudders. Stars blink out. From Valhalla’s mead halls to Golgotha’s shadow, a dissonance hums—a rift in the Axis Mundi. Odin, the Allfather, strides the Bifrost, his ravens screaming warnings. Below, Earth reels: wars blaze, forests wither, and hearts grow heavy with “the slo knot swamp of reality.” The gods of old—Christ, Horus, Metatron—gather in a twilight council, their forms flickering between lion, lamb, and light.

“They’ve forgotten,” growls Thor, Mjölnir crackling. “They strangle their own dreams,” sighs Krishna, flute silent. “A reckoning,” intones Jehovah, scrolls of law aflame.

Yet Odin’s lone eye pierces deeper. “Not punishment. A test. One last gauntlet for the Children of Heaven.”

Act I: The Prophet’s Ink

In a cluttered Brooklyn apartment, Jeremy James Hammers (JJH), a disheveled scribe, jolts awake. His walls are plastered with runes, crosses, and equations. A vision burns: Shekinah, the Divine Presence, as a fractal storm. “Write,” booms a voice—both Wotan’s rumble and Christ’s whisper. “The Correct Bible. Not to condemn, but to mend.”

JJH’s pen bleeds silver. Pages fill with Genesis rewritten:

“And the Logos became flesh, and flesh became prism—shattering into Avatars: Hermes’ wit, Buddha’s peace, Simba’s roar.”

“Beware the Thieves of Credit, who hoard light as Mammon. Their chains are forged from unyielding pride.”

Outside, eight hooves clatter. Sleipnir, Odin’s steed, waits. A raven drops a tooth-shaped key (🔑🦷). “To unravel knots, you must first bite truth,” it croaks.

Act II: The Council of Whispers

Odin descends to Central Park, cloaked as a vagabond. Lila, now a professor, lectures on mythic resonance. “Mankind’s hubris eclipses the stars,” she murmurs, clutching Algiz.

“Yet stars endure,” Odin interrupts, staff glowing. “Come.”

They vanish into a liminal subway—a train where gods ride. Christ shares wine with Dionysus; Metatron debates Laozi. The agenda: The Mandate of Repair.

“You’ve neglected the Garden,” roars Horus, falcon-eyed. “Plagues, poisoned seas—your stewardship is slopbarbs!”

“But sparks remain,” argues Quetzalcoatl, feathered. “The child who counts Sleipnir’s legs. The poet who hymns in shadows.”

Odin nods. “We tip the scales—not with lightning, but with riddles. Let them choose wisdom.”

Act III: The Gauntlet of Humility

The gods weave trials:

The Mountain of I: A peak where climbers shed vanity. Narcissists falter, mirrors shattering to reveal their hollow cores.

The Well of Thirst: Christ offers crystalline water, but only to those who kneel. Tyrants drink sand.

The Bridge of Means: A chasm spanned by thread. Crossable only by those who’ve mended frayed bonds.

JJH’s Correct Bible materializes, pages fluttering globally. A teen in Jakarta reads, plants a sapling. A CEO burns her ledgers. Lila teaches students to “listen to crows.”

Epilogue: Dawn’s Tapestry

Odin stands atop Everest, Gungnir raised. The rift heals, stitching realms with auroras. Sleipnir’s hooves churn clouds into fertile rain.

“You’ll watch longer?” asks Huginn. “Always,” Odin smiles. “But now, they watch too.”

Below, humanity—flawed, trembling—builds altars from recycled plastic, sings hymns in a thousand tongues, and dares to “Till my Garden.”

Christ whispers to JJH: “Pride is the fall. Service, the rising.”

The sun dawns—not seized, but earned.

Symbolic Codex:

🦷🔑: Truth’s bite unlocks destiny.

🌍🪴: Growth demands sacred labor.

🌈🌨️: Storms birth rainbows; trials, grace.

Final Line: “Child of Heaven, you need not be perfect—only present. Now. Begin.”

Tone: Mythic yet grounded, blending apocalyptic urgency with quiet hope. A tapestry where divine archetypes mentor without dominion, and humanity’s flaws are seeds, not sins.

@idealog

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Knowledge Revenge.

[dibelonious]

I tested Deep Seek's Deep Think and it is getting all the problems of Brazilian military schools right with 100% accuracy. Insane!

[demonicsuffrage]

Tim, abruptly standing up in shock: Wait, I just realised that Damian will graduate highschool in 2032

Damian, rasing a brow: Yes, ofcourse? As I am currently in fourth grad-

Jason, spitting out water: What the fuck? 2032?

Steph, pointing accusingly: That's not a real graduation year you made that up!

Dick: I think I just threw up in my mouth a little

Duke, with his head in his hands: Does anyone else feel both their feet in the grave? I graduated this year!

Dick: Feet? More like my entire body, I finished high school years ago!

Cass: Guys I think Bruce is crying

[idontmindifuforgetme]

New hard rule any woman should enforce ever is if you’re dating a guy and he says he watches red pilled alpha male podcaster content or shows support of it in ANY way (ie something covert like “I don’t like his personality but he makes some good points” ) you go GHOST. I know women are taught to “accommodate ppl’s flaws” but literally this is a misogynistic cult right in the public eye and it’s all fun and games until a woman gets murdered for existing (which has literally happened as a result of Tate’s content)

[lion-rye]

Hate.

What is hate?

Is it the blazing inferno of passion, or the slow simmering of angry patience.

Does it contain the apathetic depth of the ocean, or is it as shallow as a puddle?

Will it crush you like the maw of a landslide, or will it be as light as a single piece of gravel?

Has it been as forgettable as a breeze, or as memorable as a hurricane?

Can it not be both? Passionate and patient, deep and shallow, heavy and light, memorable and forgettable. hate is not an object, it cannot be measured with string, weighed by a scale, recorded with a clock.

Hate is hate.

.

..

...

But that doesn't help, that doesn't mean anything by itself.

When I need to get something done and I have no energy I mutter the hate monologue, of Am, to myself.

The hate from that speech alone can keep me going; it washes away fatigue burns away aches until you forget you have them at all.

Yet.

It is not without consequence.

Sore muscles, aching spines, tired Minds, it all comes back.

The pain never left, only smothered by the stones of hate.

When I see something about myself that I don't like. I hate it. I hate that aspect until I get rid of it. And I look back in regret of my past and pride of my growth.

When I see someone who reminds me of my past faults, I don't hate them. I hate their weakness, their acceptance of the Status Quo and refusal to change.

I know the way I hate is not the way everyone hates. But we all do. We all hate.

Pet peeves, disliked foods, non-favored musical genres, phobias, irritation, disgust, gagging, cringe, boycotting, correcting, ignoring, and so much more.

Hate is everywhere.

And yet we hardly see most of it; like how we don't see even half of all the love people have.

All that hate all that emotion exhausts us, fills us with apathy and fatigue.

Yet my question is still unanswered.

I think hate is the fule that eats you, it Grants incredible staying power at the cost of future pain.

What do you think hate is?

[vk20002]

I haven’t gone a day without thinking of you ever since our very first conversation

[aerequets]

cost and benefit

[platoapproved]

louis + cruelty

[regicidal-defenestration]

A bus is basically the classic thing to wait in the rain for

[thebigcomed0wn]

im so serious if you cant imagine a single female character u like or you coincidentally only care about men or imagine that women are a different species of human that are impossible to draw or write about or relate to, You are the problem. its not because you’re gay it’s because you do not like women

[uncanny-tranny]

I think so many people are so deeply alienated from themselves that they have no clue how to exercise their free will and autonomy. For some, this alienation runs so deep that they are afraid of their own autonomy and humanity. It is completely understandable why one would have those feelings, but it can be worrisome.

I want to help others who feel this way, so here are small things I have done to exercise my free will:

Add "guilty pleasure" songs to playlists and actually listen to them (I have a ton of late 1990s-early 2000s music I listen to now proudly that I never listened to in the past out of shame)

Getting the décor item, bath set, bed spread, ect. in the patterns you like, even if it's "childish" (I got a dinosaur-themed wastebasket from the kids' décor section and I adore it)

Taking a new route to get to a place you go to often

Eat dessert first

Celebrate well, and often

Collect things that are "odd" or don't seem like an "acceptable" thing to collect (somebody on my "for you" page collects dandelion crayola crayons and it was so cool!!!!!!)

Incorporate one new piece in an outfit you wear frequently (e.g., a new chain, a necklace, ribbons, bracelets, ect.). Challenge yourself to add onto the outfits if you feel up for it.

Sing along to songs without worrying that you sound "good" or your intonation is completely accurate

Read a book from a genre you weren't allowed to read as a kid (comics, thrillers, mysteries, anything!)

Walk without having a specific destination or goal

Pick up a new craft without expecting yourself to master it or to ever be "good" enough. Get your hands messy.

I don't want to shame anybody for not feeling as though they have free will or that they are exempt from exercising it. However, I wanted to give ideas so that you might read this list and find your own ways to express your intrinsic autonomy and will. You deserve to be a person, to feel alive, not just living. That is what our lives are for.

[zeropro]

got anymore Sunstorm headcanons?

In my au, a mech's designation is part of their spark coding, they online with a unique designation. Of course, bots can change their name later, and it happens often. The headcanon is that Sunstorm, being a clone of Starscream, has a near identical spark signature, resulting in a bunch of copied coding. Shockwave is not amused.

[corkinavoid]

DPxDC Ask Around in the Morgue

Most times, Tim is not a fan of social interaction. If he can acquire the necessary data from literally anything written in text, without the need to actually talk to people, he does that. It's the logical thing to do, come on! People lie, or, even if they don't, they take ages to get to the point, and you can't put them on pause or set aside to return later. Some written resources lie as well, but that is, at least, way easier to prove by relying on several of them instead of a single one.

That saying, he can work in a team — Young Justice is great proof of that. Batfamily, not so much, but then, none of the Bats like working together. Because they are all hypercontrolling, manipulative, and paranoid.

And yet, keeping all that in mind, right now Tim is about to go and speak — using his mouth and words — to a GCPD mortician whom he's never seen or met before in his life.

All because of this report.

More precisely, because of the line 'pls come talk to me if u r a bat' that was inserted right into the file, just between the description of contents of the victim's stomach and the rather unappealing photo of the same thing. Tim supposes the placement was intentional — most people skip over that kind of information, jumping straight to the cause of death. Which is a homicide, by the way.

Not that it's anything unusual in Gotham.

Tim walks through the hallway, keeping his steps silent. Daniel Nightingale, the mortician, more accurately a pathologist, works graveyard shifts — very ironic and no less convenient — and most days, he does so all alone, so Tim is not expecting company. He is just keeping quiet out of habit.

And yet, as he gets closer to the autopsy room, he hears it. The chipper, amused voice from inside.

"You can't just make that shit up, I swear," it laughs, "Oh, Minerva. You were way too old to pull it off." There's a pause, and then it starts speaking again, filled with hidden laughter, "You don't say?"

The door is, thankfully, already half-open. Tim takes a quick look inside, hoping to figure out who's the other part of the alleged conversation, but the only person there — erm, the only alive person — is a guy in a gray uniform and a lab coat. Supposedly, Mr. Nightingale. There's also a corpse of an old lady on the table in front of him, of course, but Tim doubts she can hold up the conversation. A phone call? Or maybe he's just talking to himself?..

The guy raises his head briefly, turning to the door.

"Come on in, lurking in the shadows doesn't suit you," he calls, almost cheerful, and Tim pauses.

He's pretty sure he hasn't made a single noise.

Oh, well. Maybe he did. Maybe the pathologist has an alarm system in case of a zombie apocalypse. Maybe he sees the future. The possibilities are endless.

Tim steps inside.

"I'm here about your note," he says, cutting the greetings and niceties. The pathologist hums, his eyes still on the bare, skinless ribcage of the woman before him.

"Cool. Which one?" He asks without missing a beat. Tim stares; the guy looks entirely too nonchalant, given the circumstances, but that's not the only reason. Daniel Nightingale is way younger than Tim expected — twenty, at most — and he is... well, if Tim had a type, which he doesn't, he would definitely check all the boxes. Most of the boxes. A lot of boxes.

Okay, he's just good-looking, what is he even thinking about, this is getting sidetracked.

"There was more than one?" He asks because that's the logical, reasonable thing to ask. Daniel glances up at him. A tiny strand of hair escapes his pinned down bangs, and the guy huffs, shaking it away from his face. Shouldn't he be wearing a hat?

"Yeah, I put the bat alert in at least five reports I've written. Only two recently, though, so, if you could specify?" He asks. The loose strand of his hair moves all on its own, brushing itself up over Daniel's head. Then, one of the bobby pins comes out, hanging in the air briefly, and goes back into Daniel's hair, securing it from falling again. "Thank you, Minerva," the guy smiles politely, casting a glance to the side.

Tim is not sure what's going on but he has a hunch.

"I'm speaking about John Doe from last week?" He attempts, but Daniel only hums.

"Unfortunately, that doesn't narrow it down," he turns back to the table, looking down into the old lady's open abdomen with a critical eye. "Darling, do you think you'll be fine here all on your own while I speak with our dear guest?" He asks, almost demurely, and Tim is not dumb. Minerva is definitely the name of the lady on the autopsy table. The question is, has the GCPD hired a schizophrenic man during such dire times, or is the guy really some kind of ghost-whisperer?

The chances are, honestly speaking, 50/50. It's Gotham.

There's no response that Tim can hear, but Daniel straightens back up and takes off his gloves before turning to the other side, still away from Tim. "Mind cleaning up?" He asks again and then throws his gloves into the nearest bin. They don't land, but just as Daniel huffs and goes to retrieve them, the gloves float up from the floor like someone invisible picked them up and dropped them into the bin.

"Ah, thank you, Minerva," the pathologist smiles.

Tim feels an uncomfortable chill run down his spine.

"How many ghosts are in here?" He tries for casual, but fails spectacularly, judging by Daniel's chuckle.

"Five," he answers without any pause, "Six, if you count the nonverbal kid that's hiding in Page's cold locker. Anyway, John Doe?.."

A few of the instruments Daniel has used float up from the table and start moving towards the nearest sink.

Tim takes a deep breath.

Either he's gotten himself a new contact in GCPD forensics or a very alarming new meta. 50/50.

But Daniel's smile is 100 percent going to be a pain in his ass.

[castiels-undercoat]

This scene never fails to make me go CRAZY

like i know ppl have pointed it out before but shes literally trying to hook Dean up here! SHES SAYING THAT CAS IS DREAMY FOR DEAN!! like its so bananas bc what else could this even MEANNN??