Category: Mood

I did it. I finally decided to set up my Analogue NT in the living room instead of the office.

The original plan was to stream some retro gaming goodness — but it turns out that might not happen. Instead, I think it’s destined for something better: fun and discovery with my daughters, not random strangers on the internet.

The first game I picked? Super Mario World.

My eldest is nearly five. She doesn’t play yet, but she knows the characters — Mario, Yoshi, and the gang. She sat wide-eyed, watching me play a game that’s over 30 years old. She was visibly entranced by the music and the action on screen.

It brought me right back to my own first experience with the game. I couldn’t help but smirk. Level after level, I could see in her eyes the exact same emotions I felt as a child. She asked questions about everything, and since I was playing mostly from muscle memory, I had the mental space to really enjoy the moment.

Super Mario World still surprises me. Every level feels crafted with intent and gusto. It’s a game so many of us take for granted — it’s just there, always has been. But every time I pop it in, I feel like the developers are giving it their all, treating me, specifically, to a grand old time.

For a game to radiate that much joy — even decades later — it’s something special.

It’s Canadian Thanksgiving today.
It doesn’t mean much, but I really am thankful for that game.

I think it always felt like that.

You live — and feel like sharing… everything, really. The most human thing to do.
We’re all explorers of our own lives.
There’s so much to see, so much to feel.
And yet, we yearn for something beyond the liminal. That feeling of transcendence.
To share more than the surface-level fragments of our experiences…
To connect, to understand, to feel less alone.

We live so much in our short lifespans — and yet, so much of it flies past us.
Missed.
Unnoticed.
Gone.

Being creative — being artistic —
It’s not about technique.
It’s about being a conduit.

To ingest as much of life as you can
and regurgitate something new,
something that is yours,
and yours alone.

…Never thought I’d plug a puking metaphor in there, but here we are.

Be alive.
Seize everything life throws at you.
And for the love of the Great Spaghetti Monster —
regurgitate.
Often and hard.

Peace,

Davoid