Lost Blobs Find Home

The Big Blob

The Big Blob

At some point, we delude ourselves into thinking that someone else will think we're special. The only opinion that should matter is our own. And yet we hope others can see the good in us too.

We hope that the blob on the page is seen as artistic. It's beautiful. It has a purpose. It has meaning... but no. All they see is a blob; a stain on a perfectly white page. Not only is it 'not special', but it's also a hindrance to other forms, the lines, the shapes...

What's a directionless, formless blob to do? How does it find home?

It lumbers on, trying its best to keep its ink to itself.

It finds a place but the place is too small. So the blob cuts itself into pieces, storing and stashing those pieces away like a jigsaw so everything is somehow manageable. It's temporary, it thinks. This is only until it can build its own place.

But the world isn't always kind. And home seems like a faraway dream. And the blob had no choice but to give its pieces away. One by one, killing itself slowly, telling itself it will be fine. It's temporary. It will rebuild itself one day.

But the remaining blob is no longer the same as the blob before. The once big, once complete blob is nothing more than just tinier pieces of a lost soul... still desperately trying to find its way home... more alone than ever.