I pulled over early on the way home from work to record that the last song I added to my playlist is wrecking me again. This happens. The playlist is a playlist I made of songs that wreck me.
There are art works I experience on a level that breaks my own heart a little, if I think: “I may die without ever having expressed my own feelings this clearly”—this beautifully. Tonight it’s “The Road, The Rocks, and The Weeds” by John Mark McMillan.
Sometimes I feel like art is pointless, what is the use, why even bother, why not give up even trying or wanting to try. Sometimes it all seems a waste of time and that I maybe should just leave it alone and move on—not that I know how to move on. To match my mood I turn on Rich Mullins, for the first time in a long time.
Then I wonder if Rich Mullins would have ever gotten his message to seep into my sluggish and beaten-down consciousness if he had not written and sung.
God in Heaven understands.
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