Every morning, the school run is a chaotic, messy, loud, beautiful ritual. It’s a mix of tired-eyed beginnings, spilled cereal, and the mad rush to find that one missing shoe. But once we’re all packed into the car, something shifts. The world outside fades, and for those twenty minutes, it’s just me, the kids, and the magical madness of the road ahead.
Now, in my dream world, I’d be driving a Land Rover Defender 110—rugged, indestructible, ready for adventure. But let’s be real, my actual dream car for the school run is my Caddy. It’s practical, it’s got space for all the chaos, and most importantly, it’s safe, it feels like a little home on wheels.
Inside, it’s less of a car and more of a moving concert hall-slash-playground. Right now, the soundtrack of our lives is Pink Pony Club on repeat. Lizzy’s current anthem. The kind of song that drills into your brain so deeply that I hear it even when the car is off. The volume is always a battle—I turn it down slightly, only for small, determined hands to crank it all teh way back up.
Then there’s the ‘GO wiggly’ game. A tradition. The soft toys get their turn to “drive,” which basically means some stuffed animal takes the wheel for a few seconds while we gently (but dramatically) swerve. It’s important business. Daniel provides running commentary on who’s driving best today, while Lizzy, seatbelted in like a queen, makes sure everyone knows she has final say on playlist decisions.
But then we get to school. The music stops. The morning silliness fades as bags are slung over little shoulders, we check our lists and make sure we got everything and they prepare to step into their world without me. I walk Lizzy to her classroom and, as always, say, I love you. She doesn’t respond.
So I say it again, a little louder.
LIZZY, I love you.
She looks at me, not annoyed, not embarrassed, just completely certain, and says, I know.
And I think—that might actually be better than her saying it back. Because as her dad, that’s all I really want. For her to know.
We are always reaching, always chasing, always looking toward some imagined horizon where everything will finally make sense. The perfect job, the perfect relationship, the perfect body, the perfect bank balance, the perfect home. A place where all the chaos settles, and we arrive.
We live in a world obsessed with destinations. We are told from a young age that life is a path, a journey toward some distant place where we will finally feel whole, satisfied, and complete. That “place” might be success, wealth, love, enlightenment, or a peaceful retirement by the sea.
But what if there is no “there”?
What if we have been conditioned to believe in a mirage—an illusion that once we reach some undefined pinnacle, all will be well, and we will finally breathe easy? The truth is, whenever we get to where we thought we wanted to be, there’s always another peak in the distance, another valley to cross, another dream to chase. Life is not a straight line leading to fulfillment; it is a continual unfolding of moments—now here or nowhere, depending on how we choose to see it.
If you take the word nowhere and break it apart, you get now here. It’s a simple shift in perspective but one that holds the key to everything. All we ever have is now, and all we ever are is here. The past is a memory, the future is an idea, and neither exist beyond this exact moment.
So why do we spend so much of our lives trying to get somewhere else?
The Illusion of Arrival
Society sells us the idea that fulfillment is a place, a destination, an achievement. But if you’ve ever actually reached one of your long-awaited goals, you know the truth: the moment is fleeting. You celebrate, you exhale, you might even feel deeply satisfied: for a while. But then, a new mountain appears. A new desire forms. The horizon moves again.
It’s not that striving is wrong. Growth is part of the human experience, and the journey itself is beautiful. But the belief that happiness, peace, or fulfillment live at the peak of some future moment is a lie. Because once you climb a mountain, what do you see? More mountains. More valleys. More paths to take. And you keep moving.
Some mountains you climb alone. Some, you climb with a group of friends who become family along the way. Some trails are celebrations, filled with laughter and music. Others are quiet, solitary walks through deep valleys. And then there are those sacred climbs where the silence is so profound it feels like the universe itself is whispering to you.
The journey never ends. And that is exactly why we must learn to love the moment we are in.
The Sacred Connection to Soul
What if the soul doesn’t care about arrival? What if our essence, the deepest part of who we are, only exists in presence?
Think of the most meaningful moments in your life—not the ones you planned, but the ones that caught you off guard. The laugh that turned into tears. The unexpected kindness of a stranger. The morning light hitting your coffee cup just right. The night you lay on your back staring at the stars, watching satellites drift silently across the sky, feeling both infinitely small and deeply connected to it all.
These moments are sacred because they are now.
Your soul is not waiting for you at the next peak. It’s whispering to you here, in the space between thoughts, in the quiet of your breath, in the rhythm of your bare feet pressing into the earth.
Practicing Presence: Small Rituals, Big Impact
Mindfulness doesn’t have to be a grand, time-consuming practice. It’s not about escaping to a monastery or meditating for hours (though if that’s your thing, go for it). It’s about simple, intentional ways to root yourself in the now. Here are three daily practices that help cultivate presence:
1. Barefoot on the Grass with a Banana
Every day, I take a banana and walk barefoot on the grass. It sounds simple, even silly, but it’s a ritual that pulls me into my body. The sensation of the earth beneath my feet, the taste of the banana, the air on my skin—it reminds me that I am alive, not just a mind running in circles. This is a grounding practice, literally connecting you to the earth and figuratively pulling you out of the endless loop of thoughts about somewhere else.
2. Staring at the Stars, Finding Satellites
At night, I try to look up. Not at a screen, not at the endless distractions of modern life, but at the vast sky above me. I search for satellites drifting across the darkness, for stars that have been burning for millions of years. It’s a reminder that my worries, my ambitions, my “there” is small in the grand scheme of things. Not insignificant—but small enough that I can relax a little, breathe a little deeper, and exist without the constant need to strive.
3. The “This Is It” Practice
Throughout the day, pause and tell yourself: This is it. Not in a this is all there is? kind of way, but in a this moment is enough way. Washing the dishes? This is it. Laughing with a friend? This is it. Sitting in traffic, feeling the weight of the world on your shoulders? This is it. This practice trains your mind to stop resisting the present moment and instead see it for what it is: sacred, fleeting, real.
Living Without a Destination
Of course, it’s okay to dream. It’s okay to set goals, to move forward, to seek new experiences. But do it knowing that the point was never to arrive.
The point is to be here while you go.
If we live always waiting for “there,” we will miss the sacred, messy, beautiful now. The laughter, the grief, the lessons, the sunsets, the random Tuesday afternoons where nothing extraordinary happens—but somehow, in that nothingness, we catch a glimpse of what it means to truly be alive.
So walk barefoot. Eat your banana. Look at the stars. Climb your mountains. Dance with your companions. Sit in your valleys. And most of all, remember:
We all wear masks: the roles we play, the illusions we believe, and the stories we tell ourselves about who we have to be. But at some point, we wake up to the realization that something feels off. The roles we’ve assumed no longer fit, and we crave something deeper—something more true. This post is about that journey. It’s about stripping away what no longer serves us and stepping into the fullness of who we are.
Recently, I went through this process myself by asking ten deeply reflective questions designed to uncover the masks I was wearing and the illusions I had accepted as reality. I want to share my experience with you, in the hope that it inspires you to take this journey for yourself.
At the end of this post, I’ll include the exact prompt I used so that you, too, can embark on this powerful exercise.
The Tension Between Who I Am and Who I’ve Become
When I sat down to answer the first question, it became clear that something in my life felt out of alignment. I poured myself a whiskey and settled into this process, this journey.
I realized that my daily work, my job — admin-heavy, computer-based, and with little human interaction — was far from the life I once envisioned. I used to see myself as a leader, someone who thrived in the presence of others, working in teams. I loved music, playing guitar, and singing, yet I had completely abandoned those passions. Instead, my life had become about work and responsibilities, primarily because it provided financial stability for my family. And while I’m grateful for that stability, I couldn’t help but wonder: Have I sacrificed too much? Have I missed it?
That’s when I uncovered a deep-seated belief: that I had to choose one path in life—that I couldn’t be both creative and practical, a provider and an artist, a leader and an introvert. But was that actually true? Or was I limiting myself?
Reclaiming the Full Spectrum of Who I Am
Through this process, I realized that I am many things:
A gentle, creative soul who deeply values connection.
Someone who longs to make sure others feel like they belong.
A father who cherishes the time spent with his kids.
A person who loves nature, singing harmonies to songs, and walking barefoot.
Yet, I had been boxing myself into a single definition, letting societal expectations dictate what was “acceptable” to pursue. And when I traced this belief back, I saw its roots in childhood. I grew up in a system that taught me I had to choose one career, one path, and stick with it. I didn’t see my parents having hobbies—they worked, and that was it. Somewhere along the way, I absorbed the message that joy and self-expression were secondary to duty.
But that’s simply not true.
I can be creative and responsible. I can be introverted and still connect deeply with others. I can make time for music, art, and writing just because they bring me joy—not because they need to be monetized or shared with the world.
Breaking the Cycle of Self-Neglect
One of the most eye-opening realizations was how much I had been neglecting the things that brought me joy. When I imagined a life without external pressures, I saw myself:
Reading more.
Playing music again.
Taking long, quiet walks.
Painting and writing simply because I want to.
Building more meaningful connections.
Yet, my first instinct was to say, But I don’t have time.
That’s when I had to call myself out: That’s an excuse.
The truth is, even with work and parenting, I can carve out 10 minutes a day for something that fuels my soul. And those small moments of creativity and presence add up.
But then came the resistance: What if I’m not good enough? What if I pick up the guitar and realize I’ve lost my skill? What if no one cares about what I write?
That’s when I had to confront the harshest truth of all: I had been holding myself back out of fear—fear of judgment, fear of failing, fear of not being seen the way I wanted to be seen.
Rewriting the Story
To move forward, I had to shift my mindset. Instead of creating for validation, I had to start creating for myself. Instead of seeking external approval, I had to recognize my own worth. And instead of thinking in extremes (all or nothing, success or failure), I had to embrace the in-between—the simple joy of doing something because I can.
I decided to make small, manageable changes:
10 minutes a day dedicated to something just for me.
Letting go of outcomes—playing music, painting, or writing with no intention of sharing it.
Practicing saying no to things that drain me.
Physically taking up space—stretching, breathing deeply, reminding myself that I belong.
Teaching my kids by example—so they grow up knowing that joy and rest are just as important as work.
Daily Affirmations for Growth
As I stepped into this new mindset, I created daily affirmations to keep me grounded:
My needs and wants matter. I am worthy of joy.
I am allowed to take up space. I stretch, I breathe, I exist fully.
I am not limited to one path. I am allowed to evolve and change.
Creativity is my birthright. I create because I am alive.
I choose to listen to the voices that believe in me.
A Message from My Higher Self
As I reflected on this journey, I imagined what my higher self—the wisest, most whole version of me—would say:
“You have carried burdens that were never meant to be yours, but now, you are awakening. The boy who longed to be chosen is now a man who can choose himself. You no longer need permission to take up space. The world is not waiting for you to be one thing—it is waiting for you to embrace all that you are. Stretch to the heavens. Breathe deeply. Take up space. This is your life—live it fully.”
Want to Take This Journey Yourself?
If this resonated with you, I encourage you to embark on your own journey of self-discovery using the same exercise I did.
Here’s the exact prompt I gave to ChatGPT:
“I want to uncover the masks that I am currently wearing, the roles I’m playing, and the illusions I’m believing. Please guide me through this process by asking me 10 reflective questions one at a time to help me recognize the stories I’m telling myself. After I answer the 10th question, please step into the role of my higher self and analyze my responses. Identify the top negative patterns present in my life and the top positive patterns I can embrace and grow. Be direct and truthful; tough love is welcomed. Please provide me with daily affirmations to support my growth, actionable steps to change my behaviors, and embody my most authentic self. And a message of encouragement from my higher self to celebrate how far I’ve come on my journey.”
If you decide to do this, be honest with yourself. Let it be messy, let it be raw, and let it be real.
You deserve to take up space. You deserve to be fully, unapologetically you.
Final Thoughts
I hope this journey inspires you as much as it has transformed me. If you take the leap, let me know how it goes. Remember: You are allowed to evolve. You are allowed to take up space. You are allowed to be.
Stretch your arms to the heavens. Breathe. You belong here.
As we move through February, I’ve been thinking a lot about the heart—about what happens when we offer our creations, our choices, our acts of living to its altar. It’s been sitting with me, this idea of heart-led living, as I navigate my own evolution and process; both personally and in my work. Lately, I’ve been noticing where I let my mind take too much control and where I allow my heart to lead me instead. SO much of of “work” leads and lends itself to my computer and my head, but I can hear my heart tugging, what’s next, let me try say something, could I have a go…
It’s a delicate balance, isn’t it? The mind is brilliant at organizing, strategizing, and making sense of things, but when it takes over completely, we risk losing the essence of what truly matters. Our work can become mechanical, our relationships can feel transactional, and the things we once felt passionate about can start to feel like obligations. When that happens, I think we lose the plot. The things we create: whether it’s a project, a conversation, a moment of connection—can start to feel hollow. But when we create, love, and live from the heart, everything feels richer, fuller, more alive.
I’ve been especially aware of this when it comes to raising my kids. As Daniel and Elizabeth grow, I can feel the tug-of-war between my mind and my heart more than ever. My mind wants to teach them discipline, structure, and logic—the tools they’ll need to navigate the world. But my heart? My heart just wants to love them well. To be present. To help them feel safe, seen, and understood. I want them to know that beyond all the lessons, expectations, and rules, the most important thing is love—the kind of love that makes space, that listens deeply, that leads with kindness.
And yet, like with everything else, it’s so easy to get caught up in thinking too much about the “right” way to parent, to guide, to lead. The more I try to strategize, the more I feel like I’m missing the point. But when I slow down, when I let my heart lead, things become simpler. I listen more. I hold them closer. I see them for who they are right now, instead of who I think they should be. And it makes me wonder—how much more of my life could be transformed if I just let my heart have more of a say?
I found myself in a bit of a mental spiral the other day—overanalyzing, overthinking, trying to solve something by sheer force of logic. And I could feel it, all the energy rushing to my head, my thoughts getting louder, more tangled. So, I decided to go outside for a long walk, always barefoot and with a banana in hand. As I walked, I heard this small, quiet voice inside telling me to breathe into my heart space. To expand it toward the sky, toward the world around me. Feel the wind in my hair, the sun on my skin, the sound of the earth. It felt like an act of generosity, like giving myself permission to stop figuring everything out and just be for a moment. (We are human beings and not human doings after all)
And so I let my heart shine. I let the light pour into it, filling it with warmth. I brought my worries, my uncertainties, my restless thoughts before it, seeking its wisdom. And in doing so, I found clarity—not through analysis, but through feeling. My heart gave me an answer that my mind never could, one that felt open, expansive, and limitless.
The heart, I’ve realized, holds an intelligence all its own. It doesn’t strategize or plan the way the mind does (and thank you, brain—we do appreciate you!). Instead, it speaks in simpler words, in quiet honesty, in a language of generosity. It may not always be linear or logical, but it is always true.
In a world that often celebrates the loud, the fast, and the calculated, we forget that wisdom is not always found in the sharpness of the mind but in the depth of the heart. Susan Cain, in Quiet, reminds us:
“Solitude matters, and for some people, it’s the air they breathe.”
It is in those still, unguarded moments—when we are quiet enough to listen—that the heart’s intelligence emerges. The heart does not demand; it invites. It does not argue; it knows.
Similarly, Paulo Coelho, in The Alchemist, speaks of the heart as a compass, a guide that always seeks truth, here quoting The New Testament:
“Remember that wherever your heart is, there you will find your treasure.”
The mind may try to predict, protect, and rationalize every decision, but the heart moves toward something deeper; toward meaning, connection, and purpose. Its language is not efficiency, but essence. It is the voice that whispers when the world shouts. It is the pull toward an unseen destination when logic says stay put.
The heart’s intelligence is not measured in strategies or calculations, but in its unwavering commitment to what truly matters. It is the quiet knowing that kindness is never wasted, that love is worth the risk, and that sometimes, the most powerful thing we can do is simply trust the direction it points us in.
Perhaps, as we navigate our days, we might do well to give both mind and heart their due. To let the brain structure the journey, but to let the heart choose the road. Because while the mind may be brilliant, the heart is wise. And wisdom, after all, is what leads us home. She gently holds us by the hand and walks us Home.
So, this week, I wonder if this small practice might serve you too. If something has been weighing on you—a decision, a creative block, a challenge you’re trying to untangle—perhaps you could place it in the hands of your heart for a while. Give your mind a break. Let your heart have its say.
Why Human Emotion, Touch, and Art Are More Vital Than Ever
We live in what many call the Information Age, a time defined by rapid technological advancement, artificial intelligence, and instant access to knowledge. The world has never been more interconnected through data, yet paradoxically, people have never felt more isolated. COVID accelerated this disconnection, forcing society into digital interactions where physical touch and human presence were restricted. Now, with the exponential rise of AI, our reality is shifting faster than ever before…
The rate of technological change is frightening. What once took decades to develop now evolves in a couple months. We used to marvel at the leaps between industrial revolutions; now, we barely have time to process one massive shift before another is upon us. AI models improve at an astonishing rate: faster, smarter and more integrated into our lives. We went from basic chatbots to human-like conversations in a handful of years. Creativity, thought, and even companionship are becoming increasingly artificial, raising the question: Are we heading toward a future where AI shapes not just how we work, but how we love, how we believe, how we parent?
And then, there’s Elon Musk’s offer to buy OpenAI—a move that underscores how AI isn’t just a tool anymore; it’s a battleground. Whether he succeeds or not, the very fact that the conversation is happening reveals the weight AI carries in shaping the world ahead. Will it be open-source for all, or controlled by a few? Is AI going to be a liberator, or a force that consolidates power in the hands of the wealthiest, dictating not just markets but human behavior itself?
It feels like we’re chasing down iRobot and Wall-E and even Terminator: stories we once thought were fiction but now eerily resemble our present trajectory. We imagine AI as the loyal assistant (iRobot’s Sonny), but what if it becomes the controlling force that decides what’s best for us? And what about Wall-E, where humanity has become so dependent on automation that they’ve lost touch with the world itself? Are we so obsessed with optimizing and automating that we’re forgetting to actually live? And then please don’t even get me started on the new ATLAS movie with JLo.
As a dad, these questions weigh heavily on me. I want my kids to grow up in a world where they still experience wonder in nature, where they don’t measure their worth by algorithmic validation, where they develop real resilience, not just the ability to outthink a machine. Maybe that means doing something radical, like selling everything, buying a boat, and sailing around the world for a few years. Maybe the only way to truly give them a childhood free from constant digital noise is to step away from the grid entirely.
Because at the heart of all this, in between all the algorithms and automation, is the simple truth that human emotion (heart), touch (caring), and art (soul) remain fundamental to our existence. More than ever, these aspects of life aren’t just important; they are the only things that make us human. And if we don’t fight to preserve them, we risk losing something AI can never replicate: the beauty of simply being alive.
“Beauty will save the world” – Fyodor Dostoevsky
The Pandemic and the Loss of Physical Connection
During the pandemic, society experienced a forced detachment from human touch. Suddenly, shaking hands, hugging, or even sitting close to someone became a potential threat. This had profound psychological effects—studies show, and I have experienced it firsthand, that the lack of physical touch leads to increased anxiety, depression, and feelings of loneliness. We are are wired for connection, and deprivation of touch disrupts our ability to regulate emotions and find comfort in others. When I was a pastor in the Methodist church, in the traditional service, the older community, wouldn’t move during worship. But then. When it got to the benediction, they would hold hands and sway and swing together. It made no sense to me as a 21 year old pastor who knew everything. When one day I spoke to a lady, who told me her story, her husband passes away. And no one touches her anymore. When she comes to church, someone holds her hand.
In Biblical narratives, Jesus’ miracles often involved touch. One particularly striking instance is in Mark 8:22-25, where Jesus heals a blind man in Bethsaida. Unlike the other healings, this one required two touches before the man’s sight was fully restored. This passage is deeply symbolic—perhaps a reflection of how healing, both physical and emotional, is often a process rather than an instant event. It suggests that touch is not merely a physical act but a conduit for transformation and restoration. The pandemic revealed how much we rely on these physical interactions, not only for health but for our sense of being fully human.
This passage also invites us to reconsider how we engage with others. In a world where people are increasingly overlooked, we need to take the time, often twice, to check in with people. True care involves noticing when someone is struggling, asking if they are okay, and following up—not just once, but twice, maybe even three times. Jesus’ second touch suggests persistence in healing and restoration, a reminder that our first attempt to connect with or help someone may not be enough. The first time we ask, someone might say they’re fine out of habit, but asking again, showing genuine concern, and taking time to truly listen can create space for deeper healing and connection. In this fast-paced digital age, where interactions are fleeting and surface-level, we must be intentional about seeing people—not just glancing at their social media posts but truly seeing them, engaging with them, and being present in their lives.
The Healing Power of Touch: More Than a Sensory Experience
Research has long supported the idea that human touch is fundamental to emotional well-being and physical health. Unlike technology-driven interactions, which are primarily cognitive, touch-based interactions stimulate deep emotional and neurological responses that are essential for human flourishing.
A groundbreaking study by Tiffany Field, director of the Touch Research Institute at the University of Miami, has shown that physical touch, such as hugs, hand-holding, and even a pat on the back, releases oxytocin, the “love hormone” (Field, 2010). Oxytocin plays a crucial role in social bonding, stress reduction, and overall emotional resilience. Moreover, touch decreases cortisol levels, the primary stress hormone, helping to regulate emotions and reduce anxiety (Drescher, 2015).
In infants, touch is critical for development—premature babies in NICUs who receive skin-to-skin contact through “kangaroo care” show higher survival rates, improved weight gain, and stronger emotional bonding with caregivers (Feldman et al., 2014). In adults, studies have found that massages, hugs, and affectionate touch can lower heart rate, boost immune function, and improve mental well-being (Ditzen et al., 2007).
Yet, despite this wealth of evidence, we live in a world where physical touch is becoming increasingly scarce. Remote work, social distancing, and digital communication have led to a world in which many people, especially those living alone, experience “touch starvation”, a term used by psychologists to describe the emotional distress caused by a lack of physical connection (Von Mohr et al., 2020).
When we prioritize efficiency over intimacy, we inadvertently starve ourselves of one of the most fundamental forms of human connection.
Reclaiming the Heart in an Efficiency-Driven World
We stand at a crossroads. While technological advancements continue to propel us forward, we must resist the temptation to prioritize efficiency at the cost of emotional depth.
Prioritize in-person interactions whenever possible—whether it’s a dinner with family, a coffee catch-up with a friend, or simply being present without digital distractions.
Reintroduce physical touch into daily life—hugs, handshakes, and even a reassuring pat on the shoulder carry immense emotional benefits.
Create intentional spaces for community—whether through faith groups, sports teams, neighborhood gatherings, or shared creative endeavors, meaningful relationships must be nurtured.
Set boundaries with digital communication—use technology as a tool rather than a substitute for real connection.
As we navigate a future shaped by AI, automation, and digital spaces, we must remember that the mind and the heart must work in harmony. Progress should not come at the cost of losing what makes us truly human. The challenge is not rejecting technology but ensuring that we do not forget the irreplaceable power of love, touch, and community in the process.
As Paul reminds us in 1 Corinthians 13:2, “If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but do not have love, I am nothing.” Knowledge alone does not sustain human existence; love—expressed through relationships, care, and understanding—is what gives life meaning. In a society that values intellect and data above all else, we risk losing the essence of what makes us human.
HE(Art) and Soul: The Forgotten Necessity
Art has always been an essential part of the human experience, reflecting our deepest joys, sorrows, and spiritual longings. Throughout history, art has served as a means of expressing the inexpressible. Whether through music, painting, literature, or dance, art allows us to connect with ourselves and others in ways that words often fail.
Yet, in an age where productivity is prioritized over presence, and where content is consumed in bite-sized digital formats, art is often reduced to mere entertainment rather than a profound means of connection. The psalms of David, the parables of Jesus, and the stained-glass windows of medieval cathedrals all remind us that art is a bridge between the seen and the unseen, the mind and the soul. Without it, we risk becoming a society that is intellectually advanced but spiritually hollow.
In our modern world, where efficiency is king and stillness is rare, we may have forgotten the necessity of art. We treat it as a luxury when, in fact, it has always been a lifeline. Art is not just decoration for life—it is an essential thread woven into our very being. When we lose sight of this, we risk losing something vital: the ability to feel deeply, to question boldly, and to imagine freely. We risk losing the soul of our culture.
Perhaps, just maybe, the most beautiful things do come from the most difficult places. And if that is true, then our moments of hardship are not just to be endured but to be transformed. Through music, poetry, painting, and storytelling, we shape the pain into something more—something that lasts beyond us. In doing so, we remind ourselves that even in darkness, beauty is still possible, and perhaps, it is there that beauty is most necessary.
May you hold onto the things that make us deeply and beautifully human—love, touch, art, and presence. As we navigate an increasingly digital and automated world, may you resist the pull toward efficiency at the cost of intimacy, and may you fight for the moments that truly matter. May you embrace the power of human connection, the wonder of creativity, and the sacredness of simply being alive. And in the face of uncertainty, may you always find beauty—especially in the places you least expect it.
Verse 1 In the daylight, we play this game Zombies lurking, it’s all the same Fear in pixels, manageable and small Fear in pixels, manageable and small
Verse 2 Day turns to night, shadows grow long In the silence, I hear the end’s song Yet I evolve, finding my way In this zombie game, come what may
Chorus In the pixels, fears retreat Courage and doubt, a bittersweet beat Can we find a safe retreat? In the chaos, our spirits meet
Bridge
Pixels flicker, shadows dance Facing fears, I take my chance Can we conquer the night? In the absence of light? Is there strength in our stride? Will our fears subside?
Verse 1 I bought a zombie game, to face my fears In the daylight, the end feels near Evolving slowly, still a bit afraid Of the end of days, in shadows they parade
Verse 2 Sometimes I see them, in the corner of my eye But everyone’s running, under the same sky Fears that linger, from dusk till dawn In the race of life, we carry on
Verse 3 Whispers in the dark, fears take shape In the daylight, seeking escape Through the chaos, hearts entwined In the end, what will we find?
Chorus In the daylight, fears collide Hope and dread, side by side Is there a safe place to hide? In the chaos, our spirits bide
Bridge Can we find peace in the fray? In the light of the day? Is there hope beyond the fear? Will the end draw near?
Verse 1 In the shadows of belief, I wandered alone Heaven’s gates seemed distant, made of stone Will I see you there, beyond the cloudy veil? Or is it just a tale we tell when hearts fail?
Verse 2 Every prayer, every plea, echoes in the night Searching for a sign, a guiding light Heaven’s uncertainty, a burden I bear In the quiet moments, I hope you’re there
Verse 3 Doubt and faith, a dance of two In the silence, searching for you Hope persists, through fear’s embrace In the night, seeking grace
Chorus In the shadows, doubts remain Faith and fear, intertwined in pain Is there solace after rain? In the silence, we seek in vain
Bridge Can belief carry the weight? Of a heart that hesitates? Is there a path through the night? Will we ever see the light?
Verse 1 When my friend River died, I stayed behind Prostrate in my room, the tears came unkind Heaven felt far, unreachable, untrue I wondered if I’d ever find a place in the blue
Verse 2 I couldn’t drive home, I couldn’t face the scene His laughter now a whisper in memories serene Grief held me down, tied me to my bed In the silence, I spoke with the dead
Verse 3 Days turned to nights, pain unspoken Heart in pieces, spirit broken Memories linger, echoes of the past In the shadows, grief held fast
Chorus In the silence, questions rise Grief and hope, tangled ties Is there peace beyond the skies? In the chaos, our spirit cries
Bridge Will the pain ever fade? In this life’s masquerade? Is there meaning in the sorrow? Will we find hope in tomorrow?
