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The lo-fi worldview says that the common joys are real, that the mundane comforts are not a lie; it says that, somehow, something like a slow morning with a hot mug in the living room isn’t gone forever—and it can’t be.
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Songs about songwriting conjure mixed feelings for me. At their best, they can make one feel seen in the relatable struggle for artistic expression. In my least gracious assessment, however, songs written exclusively about the writing of songs can feel like artistic cannibalism: creativity feeding on the very mechanism that should be giving life to
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Tears illuminate what we most want to be preserved forever, what we can least bear our own existence without. They show us what we most hope for and what we most fear; in other words, tears reveal the deepest loves of our souls.
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A Daddy told his daughter what she could eat and live, and what, if she ate it instead, would lead to her poisoning, though she’d have no way of knowing it if not for His loving instruction.
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Our time machines are not police boxes or DeLoreans. Our brains come fully equipped to deliver us from the Now at the simple suggestion of a neurotransmitter passed between synapses. But to abide in the only slice of time that God gives me is my duty as a mental-time traveler.
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In one of life’s maddeningly common searches for lost items, the ordeal consists of a string of successive “nots.” For every place the item turns out not to be, the seeker says: “this is another place where what I seek is not.”
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Dragons—it seems we all on this Earth can agree—”were” but “are not.” Whatever “dragon” is, it isn’t anymore. Something killed the dragons.
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To see God working in everything, sometimes it means feeling like He is active in nothing. (Promise you won’t shout “Unclean!” before we’re done.)
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Weaker Brother 