Jobby

Thank you CD Projekt Red for making one of my favorite games of all time ❤️

and hunt the morning dew.

The Western View Digital Photography - Jobby Creation of Nature AI Generation - Jobby

Saint Denis, 1899 Digital Photography Jobby

Jobby

My mind is reeling. My brain is screaming. My thoughts are racing. It’s Tuesday. Nothing is Particularly wrong. Yet everything is wrong, nothing is quite right. What's really not right is I’m not happy. Yes that’s it I’m simply not happy at all with anything that’s happening or has ever happened to me. Simple fix. Entertainment I entertain myself with the usual source. It’s not working. I must have overused this one, it doesn’t work any more. No matter, I’ll just find a new one. Not this one. or that one. or that one. or that one. or tha- ok maybe this isn’t working. Maybe happiness will never come. Maybe the river has finally dried up. Maybe the waters have soaked into the ground like a sponge. Perhaps the happiness I once had is fed up with me and wants to be as far away from me as possible. So it’s retreated to its earthen shell, a haven from the tortures of my mind. It must have been me then. I chased it away with the loudness of my thoughts, the uncontrollable sounds and impulses that are deafening, even in the far reaches of my mindscape. So just like that happiness abandoned me. It will never return, and I wouldn’t wish it to. My world is one of misery and pain, which would only be magnified to know that another was forced to experience it with me. I would rather happiness be free than trapped in here with me. 

No matter how many times I experience it, I always come back to my art. The few very rough music tracks I attempted, old videos of playing games with friends, my poetry, the photography I spent hours on obsessing over every detail. It’s my art that I spend hours reviewing at 4 in the morning every time I stay up too late. It’s my art that holds moments of life’s essence in stasis. Points of time and effort frozen forever, given importance by the pieces of me that I left in them. My art is a part of me, physically, mentally, and spiritually. My art is parts of myself that I’ve left behind now, pulled down river by the flow of time. I can still see them though, I can still hear them though, I can still sense them though. Our art has left imprints in physical and mental worlds. Our art is immortal, in the same way that we are.

Sometimes I'll be looking at art, and thinking of space, and watching a movie, and listening to a song, and looking at wonderful photography and reading a poem, and pondering the books I’m working through, all together at the same time, and I just get this feeling that I want to drown in all the world's creativity. Like I'll never be as connected to what makes the world beautiful as I want to, like I want to hold art and music and love and possibility and expression and the universe as close to me as possible. I'm just obsessed with every little work of art, every billboard someone must have spent hours working on, every rug that someone threaded together with care, every camera shot in a movie that I know someone was obsessing over because they needed it at just the right angle because this shot meant something to them, they cared about it, and because a person put care into it, it's beautiful. I cannot help but to want to be enveloped by the beauty of caring that lights up this world.