Reblog My Art

Two OC redesigns!!

on the left we have Hisakawa Ayaka: aspiring amezaiku artist and designated mom friend. She’s the humanization of 🔫 (≖ᴗ≖✿). she will not hesitate to choke someone for her friends, but she will also choke her friends if they up to that Dumb Stuff

on the right we have Moon Taemin: reserved and polite, aspiring singer with a major in music. the more quiet one of his circle of friends, the responsible one for sure. he also finds solitude in playing the piano at the asscrack of dawn while everyone else is too asleep to hear him.

I FINALLY MADE ONE OF MY OWN!! It’s not the bets but I’m happy with it.

i didnt wanna make myself but i made some ocs w it !! (order of appearance: yeonhwa,suzanne, meiyun)

i’m addicted to these picrew things!! –> https://picrew.me/image_maker/114808

whys o/ver/watch still got fans lmao

//slams leg on table, i am holding my new drawing tablet. tis shiny. tis good/ im back in business

when i was young, i was taught to be strong

I believe that I was born a romantic. I believe that we all are–we are born with the ability to see the shapes in every cloud, the sword in every stick, the magical creature in every pet. I believe we are born with the ability to see a magical forest in every garden, and royalty and nobility in every friend that we make. We are born with the ability to see magic, and we are born with a love of love.

I believe that I lost that romanticism when I was young.

I believe I lost it when my mother refused to hold my hand. She had been angry at me, and she yanked her hand away from mine whenever I reached for it. I was six.

I believe I lost it when my father mocked my brother for crying when we left the Philippines after a trip to see our family. He was seven. I believe I lost it when my father, in the same breath, called me the man of the family because I refused to cry. He valued masculinity, and as a child all I wanted his approval, because he never gave it to me. I was ten. I remember it vividly as one of the few moments I felt seen.

I believe I lost it when my mother explained to me, day after day after day, how stupid she found women who valued love above all else. How kindness was an act of submission, how having feelings in and of itself was weak. That may not have been what she said–but it was what I internalised.

My brother cried every time he heard our parents arguing, which was almost every night. I would tell him to stop acting like a child. I would read through the screaming and block out my brother’s sobs, rolling my eyes dismissively every time I heard him sniffle. I believe he lost his romanticism then. He doesn’t cry anymore. We’re close–but he’s no longer as kind as he was when we were young.

We lost our romanticism when our parents decided the best way to discipline us would be to attack our character–to call us stupid, lazy, worthless. Sponges, useless, failures. And if we cried, we were weak.

So we learned to be strong. I learned to be strong. I learned to be mean and to scoff at magic, at softness, at love–all the things I adored and wanted so badly. I learned to never cry, not even privately, that empathy was wrong, and that I was worthless unless I followed these tenets.

My parents are very different people now. Before I left home, my father told me he loved me, and I couldn’t say it back. Three words I’d longed to hear since childhood, and I didn’t believe it was real. It didn’t feel real. It felt like him trying to make excuses as to why I should stay–stay because it’ll be hard on your own, stay because you’ll have a hard time living with your grandparents, stay because I love you. But I left. I didn’t cry when I left home. I didn’t cry when my sister said goodbye. I didn’t cry when my brother gave me his fidget toy unprompted as a goodbye gift. I didn’t cry when my mother finally left me alone, after staying with me for two weeks.

I wish I had. If this is what strength is, then I am tired of being strong. I want to be weak–I want to romanticise things again. I want to cry and I want to be able to admit it without feeling shame. I want to love and laugh and be kind. I want, so dearly, to be soft.

I will begin by admitting that as I type this my tears stain the keyboard. I will begin by admitting that I am afraid of posting this, of my friends seeing me differently and of people seeing me as naive. I am afraid of people seeing just how weak I actually am, but I refuse to let myself be scared any longer.

I am not actually touch averse, as I have told many of my friends. I just don’t know how to handle affection. I’m scared that they’ll actually be able to feel how much I want to be held. I’m scared they will pull away because of it.

I am one of those lovestruck people my mother loved to complain about. I want to fall in love–I want to fall hard and deeply. I want to be the devoted partner. I want to feel as though there is at least one person who is safe. I want the fairy tale wedding and the whirlwind romance. I want cheesy pet names and dancing in the kitchen at 3 am. I want to hold hands and buy them flowers and argue over whose turn it is to pick the movie. I want to love someone, and be loved back.

I want to believe in magic again. I want to go back to seeing Excalibur in every broken branch. I want to go back to believing in fairies and mermaids and that I could see them hiding in the trees and the crests of each wave.

I want to feel beautiful, and I can only feel beautiful if I allow myself to be kind, not only to others but to myself. There is no shame in empathy, in compassion, in kindness–perhaps Cinderella was onto something after all. I believe there is virtue in throwing your love into the world, even when it chews you up and spits you back out. There is virtue in refusing to participate in a circle of hate. There is virtue in proclaiming that it ends with you. There is strength in being soft, real strength, and that is the strength I now wish to embody.

I am trying to recover my romanticism. I still have to fight the part of me that wants to be hard, scary, and respected–but I have to believe I live in a world where softness can garner respect instead of scorn, because I no longer wish to exist in a world where softness does not exist.

Kindness is not an act of submission. Softness is not a loss.

For me, softness is my victory.

some of my background paintings

[do not reupload lol]

IM UR HOPE

UR MY HOPE

IT S J H O  O O OO O O O O O O O O O O O O O OO OO O O O O O O O P E

hey guess who isnt dead me. it’s me who isnt dead

anyways im back n kicking (hopefully) so here’s a screenshot redraw!

drama: Lawless Attorney art below by: me do not: reupload please: reblog hotel: trivago