reSee.it - Related Video Feed

The speaker expresses frustration with their reflection in the mirror, feeling trapped inside themselves. They mention a past moment when they prayed for a record deal, but now question if it was worth it. They reflect on their material possessions, acknowledging that they come with a price. The speaker wonders if they truly know their loved ones, including their best friend from high school, their spouse, and even their children. They question how they can sleep at night without feeling haunted by their past and suggest that together, they can break the cycle of addiction and start anew.

I am very tired of saying goodbye. When I look inside, I see a lot of things. Let's take a look.

Speaker 0 describes life as loud, with a lot of noise and people they outgrew, and many nights when silence felt overwhelming and they reached for something unattainable. Then the other person walked in at the exact right moment, not trying to fix things or change them, simply sitting in the mess and not finding it strange. In that moment, they realized the other person was different from the rest. Speaker 2 adds that the other person didn’t run when they saw them in their mess, but pulled up a chair, stayed for a while, and met all the chaos with a quiet smile. They describe the other as the calm within the chaos they’ve been living. Speaker 1 reflects on how they’ve scared off many people with their intensity, being “too intense, too much, too hard to prove.” Yet the other person appears to understand them, not as a problem to solve or a child to fix, but someone to be with in the moment. The other person lets them be exactly what they are in the moment, without requiring performance or ownership of their feelings. It’s conveyed as “just me. Just me. Just you. Just whatever comes through.” The message emphasizes acceptance and presence: the other person doesn’t demand change or control; they offer a space where the speaker’s loud parts can quiet down. The speaker admits not knowing how the other person does it, but it’s clear that their presence creates a steady calm amid the earlier chaos. The overall theme is a transformative, nonjudgmental companionship that makes intensity feel manageable and genuine connection possible.

The speaker expresses frustration with the state of the world and personal financial struggles, stating that bills increase monthly, leading to stress and a lack of social life. They feel isolated, working and staying home. The speaker is upset that the country is "ran by a guy that talks to people that ain't even there." They are also angry that "society's trying to tell me it's okay for my son to be my daughter" and "society's trying to tell me that it's okay for a grown man to date a child." The speaker advocates for burning the world down, stating, "Let's burn this motherfucker completely down."

Excavation Pro describes living with overwhelming sensitivity and choosing to seal off those feelings. He says every cut went to the bone, every loss, every silence, leading to building “a door to nothing where that feeling just stays closed.” He now watches life with sounds muted, noting that his mother never calls “you sound different” and that his love for life is gone. He distinguishes this from depression or a crisis, describing a flat line as the piece and a life where “the volume’s down so low that even chaos seems to cease,” making it hard to feel real. He explains that it’s easier than feeling when the heart is fully numb, and that asking what he wants or needs yields silence while he digs his own grave. Relationships drift past, like ships, as he becomes “the afterimage fading to escape.” He speaks of quiet as addictive, with no highs to crash or lows to hide from, and he shrugs, saying he’s fine while burying emotion. The flat line remains the centerpiece; even chaos seems to cease as motion and emotion strain his chest. He admits that missing takes emotion where pain wants to exist, so he keeps the dial buried in static, opening the channel only to let pain exist briefly, then retreating. He describes living fast because the clock felt short, making choices as if tomorrow would abort. He didn’t save, plan, or belong to a world that cared, surviving on scams and borrowing time, breaths, and days he didn’t earn. Now at 30 with nowhere left to turn, he faces a future he didn’t prepare for or expect, with no road map or five-year plan, just the shock of existing. He compares himself to friends on five-year tracks with mortgages and children, while he sees years that won’t come back. He reflects on others who seem to know they’ll be where they are, who have roots and growth, while he never planted roots because he assumed the ground would shake and never said forever because forever felt fake. He feels like a self-destructed scheme, disoriented, standing in a future he never thought he’d do. Each birthday feels less like cake and more like death, as if stealing from a timeline that already left. He notes the looming question of what he’ll do with a life he didn’t plan, and describes borrowed time, quitting, and leaving as his only mastered skills. He contrasts a version of himself who didn’t have his habits, hollow gaze, and guarded love with a stranger’s kiss and a family that calls, not to borrow, but to trauma dump. He recognizes that he’s the one who holds the raft up for everyone else, while his own walls crumble and no one sees the strain. He presents himself as a person who shows up for others, keeping the cracks hidden, ensuring the illusion of control remains intact. He acknowledges multiple versions—at work, with friends, family, lovers—none of which truly feel like him. He ends with the image that he’s the only one who carried home the fight, a ghost in the world, while others move on, leaving him to bear the weight alone.

The speaker expresses dismay about the current state of the world, lamenting that they and others wish the negative reality they perceive wasn't true, but it is.

The speaker expresses difficulty obtaining food while working and earning little. If they could change things, they would want a chair, plenty of clothes and shoes, and enough food. They also desire a place of their own, so they wouldn't have to worry about other people as much.

The speaker expresses extreme desperation and begs someone to take action, stating, "Somebody do it already, please." They claim they "can't do it anymore" and "can't wake up every day." The speaker anticipates a future event with excitement, saying they "cannot wait for the day that I wake up and I see the headlines" and will throw a party to which everyone is invited. They urgently plead, "I need someone to do it soon. Now. Please."

The speaker rejects being saved or treated as a project. The lines contrast a desire for self-reliance with a plea to “save yourself” instead: “I’m not a project on a pretty little shelf. Dust me off, I’ll still be cracked. Love won’t fill the holes that I patch.” They describe being wounded not by typical causes, and they critique apologies as disposable, saying “Every sorry’s a recycling bin. Same old trash, just putting it in.” The speaker asserts that “She deserves a man who’s whole,” while they see themselves as “fragments with a pulse and a goal to survive.” They declare clearly, “I’m no fix, no fix, no fix. Stop trying to heal what’s always sick. No fix. No fix. No fix.” The closing lines express a cautious hope for the future: “Maybe one day I’ll be someone who can stay. Excavation Pro. Pro. Pro.”

The speaker describes today as not a good day emotionally. They express missing their patients and missing the ability to feel, to do, and to be human. The emotional experience fluctuates, coming and going. Some parts of the speaker have accepted the situation, while other stubborn parts have not. Overall, they are struggling with these feelings today.

The speaker expresses relief that her husband is missing and describes him as controlling. She mentions being interviewed by the news but doesn't want help or for him to come back. She pretends to miss him on camera to avoid suspicion but admits she doesn't care. She mentions going to jail for holding her last boyfriend and worries that people will think she's responsible for her husband's disappearance. She asks for his return but claims her tears have dried up. She pleads for someone to let her husband go and emphasizes her love for him.

The lyrics describe using “Xanny for the panic” and “whiskey for the silence,” waking up to a text the narrator didn’t want to read. They repeat that it’s the same story with different people, with “wounds that never bleed.” Though the narrator says they appear “a king” on the surface, inside they feel like “a kid,” still fighting the ghost of every trauma they hid. They wear headphones at “max” to drown out violence, saying the conflict isn’t from the streets or the beat, but “the war in my skull” that never finds relief. The narrator mentions “40 plus years” and being “still not whole,” medicating “the hole in my soul.” They again return to the unwanted text and the repeated cycle of the same story and unhealed wounds. They frame both medical and therapeutic attempts as ineffective or costly: “The doctor gave me pills, I gave him back my soul,” and “The therapist said talk, I said I’ve lost all control.” Instead, the only thing that works is “the bass and the beat,” cranking up the volume “till my heart can’t compete” with the voice in their head that says they’re done, nothing, and that they’ve lost. When that internal voice speaks, the music “fights back,” getting loud enough to make them feel proud. They keep the headphones clamped tight to their skull, drowning out static and trying not to feel the pull. They repeat that the bass and beat are the only solution, that the heart can’t compete with the voice telling them they’re finished, and that the music is the only source of pride. The song ends by emphasizing “Headphones on max,” while the narrator says they are still fighting, with “Excavation” as a final line.

Speaker 0 says that when people ask simple questions like the weather or the game, they do not want to know about the “pain” that Speaker 0 brings to the table every morning when they sit down alone. Speaker 0 explains that they respond “I’m fine” and check their phone, saying “fine means I’m still breathing,” “fine means I showed up,” and “fine means I poured the coffee and I filled the cup.” However, Speaker 0 clarifies that “fine” does not mean they are happy, healed, or anything they actually feel. Speaker 0 describes “fine” as a mask they wear when the world gets too close, and as a ghost of the man they used to be—ghosts of what they used to be most. Speaker 0 calls “fine” the lie they tell with a straight face and a nod: “yeah.” Speaker 0 says “fine is just the absence of the help I never got,” and that they have been “fine for years now,” “fine since I was a kid.” Speaker 0 states that “fine is the answer for everything I did” to keep the peace and keep the calm, to keep chaos from dropping the bomb. Speaker 0 says the “bomb still ticks,” the “bomb still waits,” and describes it as the silence between the dinner plates—“the fuse that I’ve been burning at both ends.” Speaker 0 connects “fine” to having few friends and says that when someone asks again and Speaker 0 says “I’m fine,” they should know it is “the echo of a long deadline” and “the tombstone engraving of a feeling I killed.” Speaker 0 ends by describing “fine” as a hollow replacement for the void, which Speaker 0 filled with work and grind and “the endless routine,” followed by “you know what i mean excavation.”

The speaker realized they had to stop caring what people thought and stop putting others on a pedestal. They believed everyone was better, fearing judgment and feeling worse about themselves. After calming down and observing the world, the speaker concluded that everyone is "fucked up" in their own way. Those who criticize others have simply hidden their own problems better. The speaker realized they were not alone in their struggles.

The speaker feels disgust at what's going on in the world around genocides, the loss of rights, the loss of health care, and the just general fear that everyone has surrounding affordability, their lives, their livelihood, like everything. "It just it feels so big." They say environmental issues are getting to them, experiencing climate anxiety that "a lot of us do," and note "it's not funny"—sometimes a nervous laugh because it's scary. They acknowledge these crises are happening together and ask what, besides the small things, they can do, mentioning "pushing for change and fighting and protesting." They admit it's hard not to sit in moments where it "feels so heavy."

Speaker 0 describes being left with the door “cracked,” carrying “a little light, a little hope, a little maybe I’ll be back,” while rehearsing conversations that never come to closure because their hand won’t turn the knob when alone at night. They say the person knew exactly what they were doing—“Enough hope to hold me, not enough to stay”—and blame the “halfway” fracture for refusing to heal. Speaker 0 says they learned how to live through absence: “No one taught me how to shave. I learned from a magazine.” “No one taught me how to love. I learned from a broken scene.” “No one taught me how to cry. I learned from holding it in.” “No one taught me how to lose.” They describe their parents as a ghost with a mailbox address and a cloud in a summer of stress, raising them on silence and television. Now at 40, they still feel numb and angry at being a boy “never employed…to be parented.” They repeat that no one taught them how to be a man, and claim they learned to self-educate: love as “just a rental agreement,” trust as “just a form of bereavement.” Each lesson becomes a wound, each wound a class, each class a room with no windows. They portray themselves as both teacher and student enrolled in “the school of the abandoned.” Speaker 0 shifts to seeing someone yesterday—still around but not truly present—holding a funeral for the living. They describe “no casket, no flowers, just the unforgiving,” and say addiction took the body while something else took the soul. The person is “a walking outline,” grieved “a 100 times,” returning with a hollow-eyed presence. Speaker 1 says they don’t know which is worse: hope or despair of seeing them alive but “knowing you’re not really there.” Speaker 0 vows to bury their memory beneath the earth, mourn who the person was “before the curse,” and wait if they “find [their] way back from the dead.” They liken their love to a lifeline in a storm, while holding the belief that the person is the only thing “actually real.” They describe grief as a crowded cemetery with limited shelf space for urns, memories, and flowers that die, repeating that there’s “not enough grace” and “not enough dirt to cover the cost.” They outlive a brother and pride, and say every funeral taught them a different way to continue while the ground feels too full and they remain “still here.” Speaker 0 then turns inward: running, hiding, confessing, but being haunted by a “wolf” and by ghosts built inside the chest. They try to starve the rage, shut the cage, pray it away, medicate it, but it feeds on silence and grows in stillness. They wonder if being without it would mean not knowing who they are or where they belong. They describe a mental noise—static in the marrow, speakers buried in bones—bleeding static, stepping over it since the day someone left. They return to the image of a crack in the floorboards: it reminds them of the fracture left behind and the way the other person said “I love you” like a temporary place rather than a home. They consider filling it with putty and sanding it flat, but fear that repairing the floor would erase proof that the other person was ever there and that the brokenness might keep the memory intact. They say they’ve been a backup plan, second choice, consolation prize—never the reason someone stayed or fought. They express a desire to be chosen, held, and treated as someone’s reason, strength, and “I’m not leaving,” but they remain “in the almost and never quite desired.” Speaker 0 ends with numb exhaustion: waking, breathing, repeating existence without passion or purpose—fine as a word for dying on the inside. Days blur like rain on a windowpane, nights blur like tears, and they say they are not alive, not dead, but stuck “in the in between,” floating in the space while a frequency in their skull never turns off. They describe every mistake on loop and every failure in stereo, as static becomes the only staying voice and chaos fills the silence.

The speaker describes having been a “backup plan” their whole life, repeatedly framing themselves as a fallback option if nothing else works out. They express exhaustion with this role—“tired, tired, tired”—while portraying themselves as the last resort in an excavation crew context. They claim they are not the first call but are the person who will be there when everyone else falls short. They also emphasize commitment and reliability by saying they show up early, stay too late, and hold things down while others “sell it out.”

The speaker wakes to a text they don’t want to read, describing a repeating pattern: “same story, different person,” with “wounds that never bleed.” They present themselves as a king on the surface while feeling like a kid inside, still fighting the “ghost of every trauma” they hid. They reference using Xan(y) for panic and whiskey for silence, putting headphones on “max” to drown out violence. They say the conflict isn’t “from the streets” but “the war in my skull,” with no relief. They describe the doctor giving pills, and the therapist urging them to talk, but the speaker saying they’ve “lost all control,” adding that the only thing that works is “the bass and the beat,” cranking volume until the heart “can’t compete” with the voice telling them they’re done, nothing, and that they’ve lost. They insist the music “fights back” and is the only thing that makes them feel proud. They say others don’t see the war when they look into their eyes; they see a man fighting to survive. The speaker keeps feelings, demons, and screams “locked down” rather than talking about them, claiming each pill pauses panic and each sip creates silence where screaming can hide. They state they are not asking for help or begging for peace, instead turning up the volume to reduce “hurting.” They continue clamping headphones to their skull, drowning out static while trying not to feel the pull of the past, the pain, and the ghost in their head, “still fighting, still breathing, still not dead.” The lyrics repeat and intensify with the same themes of avoidance, self-control through volume, and survival through music.

Speaker 0 expresses frustration with changing expectations and relentlessly high standards, asking, "What's the bar today? ... I hit it last week and you moved it again." He describes an "excavation probe" and feeling tired, saying, "I brought you the moon. You asked why not the stars. I gave you my honest. You picked it apart for scars." Every "I love you" is met with critique, and apologies fail to ascend the mountain built from his mistakes, described as "Cephas pushing the rock till my backbone breaks." When told to "move the finish line further than it's ever been," he feels exhausted from a race he cannot win, running "on empty for a glimpse of a grin that never comes." He characterizes the ongoing issues as "just a critique" and says that, "that's why. ... More than your lies ever did when you were lying." He feels like "a ghost, an idea, a revolving door." He notes the pattern of being in a perpetual scenario where the other person moves the goalposts and never grants his true needs. Speaker 1 counters with a reaffirmation of self-worth, declaring, "I am enough even if you never see it. I am enough even if you made me not believe it." She states she is "done bleeding for your constant wounded season," asserting, "Am enough. I am enough." She adds, "Took me forty years to mean it." This serves as a counterpoint to the ongoing pain described by Speaker 0. Speaker 0 reflects on how the other person painted the world while she is "so so inside my head," contrasting the loneliness within with the pride of holding someone's hand. She finds that "at least alone, alone, I understand," and she is "not begging for a word." She distinguishes between loneliness and being unheard, calling being alone "peaceful" compared to feeling ignored. She questions, "What am I even staying for anymore?" describing the other person as "a ghost, a chore, a permanently closing door." She asserts, "I wasn't the problem. I was just the only one trying to fix it." Ultimately, she repeats, "I'm enough. Finally believe it."

The speaker reflects on what it feels like to be a tech billionaire who has mistreated and abused someone, both physically and emotionally. Despite the abuse, the speaker is still alive and processing their pain in healthier ways. The speaker suggests that the tech billionaire is scared because their actions are being exposed, and mentions that forgiveness has been given but also emphasizes the need for the billionaire to stay away forever.

The speaker rejects the idea of “turning the cheek,” describing themselves as the “pressure” building from silence that “can’t speak.” They say others want them “calm,” “quiet,” and “small,” but claim the version of them meant to “take the fall” is “dead, buried under the floor.” They describe having been “patient” and “kind,” and state that what follows is not a “cry for help” or a “reach for peace,” but “the sound of the pressure released.” They recount “every backstab,” “every lie,” “every sorry that was fake,” and “every promise” broken to “watch my spirit break,” then declare: “I’m not forgiving, I’m not forgetting, I’m not letting it slide.” They present themselves as “the consequence” and “the thing you can’t hide from,” calling for the beat and bass to shake and split the floor. They frame this as the “silent finally getting loud,” the “ghost of the night sky” stepping out of “the shroud,” and insist they are “not your savior,” “not your saint,” “not your friend,” and “the ending” that is “here,” “the end.” They describe mapping the heavens, navigating by stars, and trusting guides, but say the stars went dark, constellations flickered out, and they ended “on the other side.” They address “the darkest light,” treating darkness as “the only friend I got,” and say they sat down and whispered everything it “forgot.” They claim similar wounds in “same story, different person,” and reject the idea of the sky as a promise or light as a vow, saying the cosmos rearranges without explanation. They say they stopped looking upward and started looking in, finding “a kind of quiet that the light had never shown,” while stating, “On the surface I’m a king, but inside I’m a kid.” They say the stars were never anchors, only “temporary flame,” and they drift “through the wreckage of a sky” with “no destination, no direction.” They insist drifting is not a prison or cage, but “the turning of a long and solitary page,” and they whisper to darkness the things they never said: dreams left for dead, tears never shed. They say darkness “didn’t answer” and “didn’t care,” yet “just held the space” to let them bear “every shattered hope” and “every broken plan,” including reaching for light and returning with empty hands. They conclude that silence was the truest thing and that darkness wasn’t evil—“darkness was just sad”—leaving “it’s enough.”

The speaker describes discovering a post about testimony given on March 19 in Germany by a Pfizer employee regarding the Pfizer shots. They initially planned to summarize it but say they must put their feelings in the caption because they are too emotional to read aloud. They state, “I was a human lab rat, and they knew that. We were all human lab rats and they knew that.” They claim this information is emerging five years later and that documents were attempted to be sealed so they wouldn’t be seen, suggesting they could have been silenced “to be dead.” The speaker expresses validation and horror, noting that they still have doubt at times but insist, “They knew the whole time.” They describe being tortured and their injured friends being tortured by medical staff, gaslit and disregarded, with a sense that they were “lab rats” and that the medical system should have done no harm. The speaker says they are one of the lucky ones, alive, and describe learning how to stop listening to “their bullshit” and stop falling for their lies. They lament watching injured friends return to the pharmaceutical industry, calling it “the vomit,” and claim those injured don’t know what was done to them because “they didn’t even test it.” They urge viewers to watch the testimony, stating it will be linked in the caption along with the transcript. The speaker indicates they must get some sleep and expresses internal conflict: happiness that things are coming to light while they are still alive to see it, contrasting with the fear that it might not have happened. They acknowledge that many are vocal and not remaining silent. They thank supporters and encourage continued discussion and posting about the issue, asserting that although it is five years later and “old news,” people are still taking these shots. They exhort others to stay loud and persistent, saying the mask and the facade are cracking. The speaker closes with “Alright. Good night.”

The speaker introduces themselves as the Excavation Pro, describing a ritual of digging into the soul to extract pain and unleash a fierce, buried force. They reveal a mess of buried secrets and the loud fury and distress they carry, while maintaining a calm exterior as their “shovel” builds an empire on top of rubble. The baseline of their world shakes and the pressure of masking damage becomes overwhelming; dust rises from a basement, and they seek a replacement for life, moving with aggressive intent in the night and listening to the rhythm of the shovel hitting stone. The excavation progresses into a confession: the ground shifts beneath them, and they discover something they knew they would never reach another, realizing it’s not just rage but a lost peace, with someone paying the ultimate cost. The baseline continues to crack, forming an emotional dubstep-like attack. They declare a kingdom of their own, yet feel alone in a room full of people who mock them, gazing at glowing stones and trading empty words that don’t buy anything. They sink in a corner, waiting for the bell, wondering who others truly are behind filtered photos and volatile melodies, recognizing a superficial version of themselves in others. The speaker laments life online: billions of zombies scrolling through screens, feeling like the only one awake as smiles seem fake. Being around people amplifies the void, so they’d rather be alone than be surrounded by emptiness. They describe a disconnect from shallow interactions, the weariness of translating feelings into words others will grasp, and the impossibility of fitting their depth into others’ expectations. They’ve learned a new rhythm—speaking in different ways in the spaces others avoid—while still sharing a room, breathing the same air, but remaining distant. Pause reveals truths that creep through cracks of the false narratives others cling to to keep emptiness at bay. They reflect on learning a language that broke their heart, choosing to speak in alternative rhythms rather than conventional speech, because the narrative of others doesn’t align with their own truth. The room remains the same, but they start to stop translating; the depths are too real for others’ comfort. They stop watering down truths for politeness and scrolling, choosing silence and heaviness over superficial chatter. The quiet becomes a home: the excavation ends, and the speaker becomes the Excavation Pro who watches feeds while the soul rots, yet refuses to accept the lie that silence is not. They stop bending words to fit ears, rephrase depth away from shallow crowd-pleasing, and let the ocean inside their chest be an ocean. They stop transforming the living for others and begin saving their voice for the rhythms in their head, letting words lie as they are, more alive than before. They refuse to be a ferryman for people without boats, choosing to float on their own sea and be understood by those who crave real meaning. In the end, the speaker builds a fortress in the quiet, a world inside the hush made of words and solid ground, standing in a fortress others will never face. They explain that stopping the noise transformed isolation into purpose, turning isolation into a foundation of focus and existence—an inner world no pause can erase.

The speaker expresses frustration and a desire to hold back their true thoughts.

The speaker describes having nothing left within themselves after giving everything away “for free.” They portray themself as a hollow cavity where their heart should be, with a void replacing their love and time. The speaker says others took their love and time and drained their soul through a “perfect crime,” leaving them with only the void. They continue that the void is the only thing “mine,” and that it doesn’t hurt or ache—there is only a “nothing” they can’t shake. The speaker repeats that the void is the only thing awake, contrasting past feelings with the current state: they “used to feel” and “used to burn,” but now they are just waiting for their turn. They say the lesson is gone and that the void is what they “earn.” When asked how they are, the speaker responds with “fine,” explaining that “fine” is a void inside their mind. They describe themself as “a ghost in a body” and “a sign,” while claiming nothing matters in the grind. They assert that they are still here, that the void is what they feel, and that it is not peace—only nothing. The speaker concludes that nothing is all they have left.