Say you've actually given someone their eyes, their arms, their legs, their hairline, all their bones, their working blood, their laugh and maybe even their walk. Say you've literally given life to someone, boy, you quickly realize how far from done you are. You live precariously in all of those various parts and attributes you gave and you sweatily, nervously understand how you've thrown them to the wolves. Everyone's thrown to the wolves. They're given over with a slap on the ass and months and months of breast milk. They're fed and they're bathed and clothed until they can do it for themselves and then they're given their space. Their takes on your mannerisms become spooky and you're amazed by their capabilities as well as their need. There's always that need that won't ever be filled elsewhere, even if they think it will -- even if you think it will. You've been around long enough to know that you've yet to fill that need, so why would they be any different.
The songs that Christopher Paul Stelling writes are the kinds of things that cut you and everyone else down to size. You start to recognize how small you are even as you're ferociously crucial to a certain few people. None of it's to be understated. Stelling makes you feel that you're in the middle of a personal rage -- one that's going to take you to that intersection of blood and water, tears and smiles.