while listening to a live bootleg of switchfoot...

the world offers us its anesthetics
band-aid cures for an emptiness so vast that we can barely recognize it
we suffer from emotional atrophy
where honesty has an allure of pornography
too dirty, too pervasive, too voyeuristic

we live in our hall of mirrors
we can look around but all we see is ourselves

we've made it difficult to love
in the frenetic chaos of our daily lives
in the beeping, blaring, booming noise of alarm clocks

we have no raison d'etre
pacing back and forth
afraid to find ourselves passionate
and longing for meaning

because that would ask something of us