What Are We Looking For

What Are We Looking For?
By Preston Ivan Lewis | © 2026 Deist Publishing and Recording
In the hush between heartbeats, in the stillness just before dawn, there’s a question that lingers—soft, persistent, unrelenting. What are we looking for? It isn’t shouted from rooftops or carved into monuments. It’s whispered. It’s felt. A quiet ache in the chest, a restlessness beneath the skin, a yearning that no amount of distraction can fully silence.

We live in a world that promises everything and delivers fragments. We scroll, rush, consume, achieve—yet somewhere inside, a hollow echo remains. More money, more likes, more success—still, the soul asks, Is this it? We build lives like sandcastles at high tide, knowing deep down that something stronger is coming to wash it all away.

In the lyrics of a song, these questions rise like mist from a frozen lake. “Whispers in the night, a soft plea so clear / Chasing shadows, drowning in fear.” Who hasn’t felt that? The quiet dread that creeps in when the noise stops. The sense that we're searching for something—truth, meaning, peace—but don’t know where to look. Or worse, suspect it might not be there at all.

So much confusion. That’s the chorus of our age. We’re bombarded with answers—spiritual, political, philosophical—but they rarely comfort. They compete. They contradict. Every creed claims certainty, yet the result is division, not unity. Faith becomes a banner, not a refuge. And in the midst of it all, we’re left wondering: What should we believe?

Is it love? Maybe. But love, too, feels scarce. Not the romanticized version sold in stories, but the real kind—the kind that stays through silence, through suffering, through doubt. The kind that sees you at your worst and doesn’t turn away. Too often, we find substitutes: fleeting connections, curated intimacy, affection that fades when the screen goes dark.

And what about guidance? In Verse 2, the singer asks, “Is there help from above, or is there no guiding light?” It’s a question as old as humanity. When storms come—and they always do—do we cry out to something greater? Or do we face the dark alone? The voices around us claim to know. Preachers, politicians, influencers—they all have a map. But too often, those maps lead us deeper into the maze.

Perhaps the real answer isn’t in doctrine or dogma, but in the quiet moments between breaths. In the bridge, there’s a shift—not resolution, but resilience. “We stumble, fall, and then we rise / With weary hope shining through our eyes.” That’s the human condition, isn’t it? Not perfection, but persistence. Not certainty, but courage in the face of uncertainty.

Connection feels like a distant shore. We carry walls—some built for protection, others out of habit. We want to be seen, truly seen, but fear what might happen if we are. And so, we hover on the edge of intimacy, longing for closeness but retreating when it draws near.

Yet, there’s a quiet beauty in the search itself. The questions are not failures. They are proof we’re alive. To wonder is to resist numbness. To ache is to care. And in that ache, there’s dignity.

By the end, the song doesn’t give us answers. It doesn’t claim to. Instead, it offers something deeper: solidarity. “With every heartbeat, we’ll search for signs… Together we’ll know.” The journey isn’t meant to be walked alone. The questions we carry—they bind us more than beliefs ever could.

So, what are we looking for? Maybe it’s not one thing. Maybe it’s peace. Maybe it’s purpose. Maybe it’s just the courage to keep asking. To live with the uncertainty, to love despite the risk, to believe—not because we have proof, but because we choose to.

We may never find a final answer. But in the shared search—in the whispers at night, in the quiet understanding between strangers—there’s a kind of truth. Not loud, not perfect, but real.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough.