My Epic - Men In Little Houses Lyrics
Lyrics
We cannot begin to see the realms beyond periphery
These ghosts and odd anomalies that whisper of reality
But modern man is so adept at skimming past the ocean's depths
From shoal to shore but still convinced
We can't feel the spinning underneath
This globe rotates and no one perceives
We're so small but man always believes
we are the center, measure of all things
If this is where we lie, some place between the matter and the mystified
And only foolish minds would attempt to fit the universe inside
Maybe all our lives are founded in the moments that escape our eyes
And prudent hearts will find that there is beauty in the mysteries of life
We are so small
Video
It May Be Hard to Believe, but People Actually Live in These Houses #3
Meaning & Inspiration
My hands are still shaking a bit. I spent so long running into the dark, thinking that if I could just own the ground beneath my feet, I’d be safe. I built my own little kingdom out of wreckage and pride, convinced that I was the one holding the compass. But listening to this latest track from My Epic, I’m reminded of how thin that ice really was.
There’s a line in there that hit me right in the gut: "we are the center, measure of all things."
God, that’s exactly where I lived for years. I was the protagonist of every story, the judge of every moral failure, the king of my own pathetic, lonely zip code. I thought I knew what was real because I could touch it. But looking back at the life I scorched, I realize I was just staring at the ripples on the surface of an ocean I refused to acknowledge. I was terrified of what might be swimming underneath.
I’m still trying to wash the soot off my clothes from the life I blew up. When you spend enough time convinced that you are the measure of all things, you end up measuring everything by how much it hurts you or how much it serves you. It’s a claustrophobic way to exist. You lose the ability to see anything that doesn't fit into your palm.
“If this is where we lie, some place between the matter and the mystified…”
That hits different when you’ve been brought back from the edge. It feels like standing in the doorway of the Father’s house, still covered in the mud of the pig pen, wondering why on earth He’d leave the light on. I shouldn’t be here. I’m a mess of contradictions—a creature made of dust that insists on acting like a god. Scripture talks about how the heavens declare the glory of God, and how we’re basically grass that withers (Psalm 103:15-16). I spent a decade trying to be a sequoia, but I was always just grass. And there is an immense, terrifying relief in admitting that.
My Epic isn’t giving us a neat Sunday school answer here. They’re just pointing out the spinning globe, the stuff we can’t see, the sheer size of a universe that doesn't care about my ego. It forces you to get small. And maybe that’s the only way to get found. You have to be small enough to fit through the gate.
I’m sitting here, listening to the static and the weight of these words, and I still don't have it all figured out. My head is still full of the noise I carried out of the wilderness. I’m not "healed" in the way people like to describe it—I’m just rescued, which is way messier and way more expensive. I’m still learning how to be a guest in a house I tried to burn down. But for the first time in a long time, I don’t need to be the center of the room. I’m just happy to be in the room at all.