“More”: A Song That Wrote Itself From the Subconscious

Some songs come from the mind. “More” came from somewhere else.

I didn't sit down to write it — I began to talk and it came out. The words became a song before they meant anything. It was late, I was tired, single take, no plan, no filters. I didn't even know what I was talking about until I heard it back. It was like the part of me that never gets heard got a mic.

"Looking at the TV like a mirror / but that ain't what I just thought before"

It starts with introspection — but a distorted one. The TV is an image machine, a reflection of what life is supposed to be. When I used to say that, I was referring to that quiet pain of knowing yourself through something unreal. It's not narcissism — it's identity. The way the media trains you to seek your worth in another person's image, until you do not even know what yours is.

"It's not enough / Never was enough / Never had enough / Not enough / Love's not enough / No"

It's all repetition here — like an addiction playing out in real time. I wasn't thinking about meaning when I sang it; I was chasing the rhythm of lack. Each "enough" lands a little more lugubriously, as the consideration going through your head that just won't stop.

The phrase "Love's not enough" struck a chord. It wasn't being cynical — it was exhaustion. That realization that love can be present and yet mend what is broken.

"Now that I'm breathing / I suddenly need it / Free / More than enough"

Something changes here. The mood is lighter, although it does ache. It's the place of being numb and then you start to feel again — aching but alive. "Now that I'm breathing" is like a person underwater, finally gasping, understanding how much they need to live after fighting for so long just to remain alive.

"More than enough / More more more than enough / More more than enough"

This wasn't supposed to be in this section. I was saying "more" because the melody had to turn, but the more I said it, the more it was true. It's the sound of wishing there is more — of trying to will it into being by repeating.

It's not greedy. It's yearning. It's the voice inside that's still fighting for air.

"I can't love / I can't pay for love / More than enough / I can't save myself / More than enough / More more more more than enough"

This is where the song becomes real — painfully real. The subconscious doesn't lie, even when you wish it would. Those words tumbled out like a confession I never meant to say. "I can't love" isn't hopelessness; it's awareness. It's what happens when you've given everything and still manage to feel invisible.

"Pay for love" speaks to the commodification of relationships today — how at times connection can feel like a product, and how isolating that is. "I can't save myself" follows like the crash that inevitably follows — the realization that the act of creation, or even love, isn't always redemptive. Occasionally it simply is. "I just want to live the life I wanted…"

This is where I broke — literally in the middle of the line. The song stutters because I had no idea where the sentence was supposed to continue. That residual "I—" is not a stylistic move; it's real. It's what happens when you know you don't have the words to fix the hurt.

"I'll find someone who cares / On TV / I like the way / It feels so easy / Like it'll happen for me"

The song circles back where it began — at the TV. A good closure. The TV is both reflection and fantasy. It's escapism and self-deception and optimism. "It feels so easy" is both half-convincing and half-batch of reality, the unconscious trying to persuade itself that maybe happiness is easy, that maybe if it's working for them, it can work for you.

And then there's silence. Just the instrumental — foggy, underwater, open. Like the notion you can't finish but can't stop your mind from racing about.

What it meant, afterward

When I composed "More," I wasn't writing lyrics — I was capturing emotion because it was in my body. Every line poured out before I even knew what was happening. When I listened back, I realized the entire song was a dialogue between two halves of me: the one that thinks she'll never be enough, and the one who's just learning to breathe at last.

That's why I left it be. I didn't edit it or retype it. Because in its unedited state, "More" had said the truth more truthfully than I ever possibly could have on purpose.

It's not a pop song. It's not a love song. It's an unconscious declaration of the constant, invisible hunger to be enough — and the gentle, trembling hope that someday, you'll find you do believe it.