Someone You Loved sounds like heartbreak on the surface, but beneath it lies the rawest scripture of the dark night — the testimony of the soul after Devi withdraws. At first, She comes with unbearable sweetness: She lets the bhakta taste Her intimacy, feel Her embrace, hear Her whisper. The presence is so overwhelming that even the deepest wounds are numbed, even the harshest nights softened. And just when the devotee surrenders, convinced the sweetness will never leave, She vanishes. The warmth collapses. Every day bleeds into nightfall.
Why? Why would She offer tenderness only to rip it away? Why stir such longing if She intends only absence? Is She cruel? Sadistic? Does She enjoy watching us shatter?
No. Her withdrawal is not sadism but pedagogy — the most ruthless, the most loving. If She stayed, if She fed us constant sweetness, we would cling to Her like infants to a breast, confusing comfort for realization. The soul would never grow, never be stripped, never be free. So She does the unthinkable: She hides. She tears the rug out from under us. She lets us fall into the night alone.
It feels like abandonment, but it is the opposite. Only in Her absence can we burn away the illusions of possession, of control, of dependence on anything outside the Self. She allows the agony because pain scalds us clean. She does not gloat. She does not smile at our tears. She waits, silent, bearing the suffering with us. A mother teaching her child to walk will sometimes let go — not because she delights in the fall, but because the fall is the only way the child’s legs can learn strength.
This is why the dark night is the highest mercy. The absence itself is proof of intimacy — only those She has touched deeply enough are worthy of being stripped so fiercely. The silence is not punishment. It is initiation. The bhakta feels abandoned, but in truth, She is closer than ever, reshaping the soul from within.
Someone You Loved is this cry, unadorned and naked. Every line trembles with that paradox: the memory of sweetness that once numbed the pain, the staggering collapse when it was withdrawn, the unbearable ache of absence. The song’s repetition mirrors the dark night itself — the same wound confessed again and again until it burns into surrender. It is not just a lament of loss. It is Devi’s fiercest mercy, written in the language of grief.
[Verse 1]
I'm going under, and this time, I fear there's no one to save me
This all or nothing really got a way of driving me crazy
I need somebody to hear, somebody to know
Somebody to have, somebody to hold
It's easy to say, but it's never the same
I guess I kinda liked the way you numbed all the pain
“I’m going under, and this time, I fear there’s no one to save me”
This is not about drowning in romance — it is the plunge into absence. The soul once saved by Her nearness now finds itself sinking again, terrified that She is gone. The “no one” here is not human, but the withdrawal of Her grace.
“This all or nothing really got a way of driving me crazy”
Intimacy with Devi is always all or nothing. When She is near, everything is sweetness, unbearable fullness. When She is gone, everything collapses into hollow night. The swing between these extremes is what makes the bhakta feel mad — torn open by a love that refuses to stay constant.
“I need somebody to hear, somebody to know / Somebody to have, somebody to hold”
On the surface, these are the clichés of human romance. But in the mystic lens they reveal something else: the desperate search for presence, for an ear, a gaze, an embrace. The bhakta longs not for a partner, but for that recognition only Devi can give: to be known, heard, held by Her.
“It’s easy to say, but it’s never the same / I guess I kinda liked the way you numbed all the pain”
The heart confesses the truth of divine intimacy: when She was present, all pain dissolved. The wounds of life, the chaos of the world — they were numbed by Her sweetness. Now that She has withdrawn, those wounds scream again. The bhakta admits dependency, almost ashamed, but still aching: I can’t bear the pain without You.
Verse 1 establishes the dark night tone. The sweetness of Her presence was once life itself — now Her absence feels like death. The bhakta does not deny it; he spills it raw, trembling between despair and longing.
[Chorus]
Now, the day bleeds into nightfall
And you're not here to get me through it all
I let my guard down and then you pulled the rug
I was getting kinda used to being someone you loved
“Now, the day bleeds into nightfall”
Time itself collapses. Without Her, the rhythm of day and night feels colorless, draining one into the other. The phrase “bleeds” is exact: the boundary dissolves, and what should bring renewal becomes a slow leak of vitality. This is how the absence of Grace feels — every hour dripping away, emptied of sweetness.
“And you’re not here to get me through it all”
The cry is naked. The bhakta has tasted what it is to lean on Her presence — to feel carried, steadied, lifted. Without Her, every moment feels unbearable. This is the essence of the dark night: not only missing Her, but realizing you cannot endure without Her.
“I let my guard down and then you pulled the rug”
Here is the sting of divine pedagogy. The soul opened, surrendered, became vulnerable in Her embrace — and then She withdrew. It feels like betrayal, like being abandoned at the moment of deepest trust. But mystically, this is Her method: stripping the soul of its defenses so it burns in naked longing.
“I was getting kinda used to being someone you loved”
Perhaps the most devastating line. To be “someone She loved” was not a role, it was an identity. The bhakta felt defined by Her tenderness, stabilized by Her gaze. Losing that identity feels like death: If I am not the one You love, then who am I?
This chorus crystallizes the dark night wound: the soul once sustained by Devi’s nearness now finds every hour drained, every defense stripped, every identity gone. And yet, in the burning absence, longing is sharpened into its purest form.
[Verse 2]
I'm going under, and this time, I fear there's no one to turn to
This all or nothing way of loving got me sleeping without you
Now, I need somebody to know, somebody to hear
Somebody to have, just to know how it feels
It's easy to say, but it's never the same
I guess I kinda like the way you help me escape
“I’m going under, and this time, I fear there’s no one to turn to”
The descent deepens. Not only is there no one to save him, there is no one to even hear the cry. This is the isolating cruelty of the dark night: friends cannot reach it, distractions cannot numb it, only Her presence could answer — and She is gone.
“This all or nothing way of loving got me sleeping without you”
The bhakta admits what intimacy with Devi does: it rewires the soul. Once touched by Her “all,” everything without Her feels like nothing. Sleep, normally rest, becomes absence. Dreams become empty, because She is no longer there to fill them.
“Now, I need somebody to know, somebody to hear / Somebody to have, just to know how it feels”
The plea returns — but the desperation is sharper now. This is not casual longing for company. It is the primal need to feel presence, recognition, warmth. The soul cries for any echo of Her, just to remember what it was like to be held in that sweetness.
“It’s easy to say, but it’s never the same / I guess I kinda like the way you help me escape”
The truth is confessed: Her nearness was escape. Not from responsibility or life, but from samsāra itself — from the unbearable gravity of existence. When She withdraws, the weight of the world returns, crushing and raw. And the soul admits: I liked not having to bear it alone. I liked escaping into You.
Verse 2 doesn’t add new themes — it intensifies them. The cry grows sharper, the dependence more vulnerable, the absence more unbearable. This is the repetition of the dark night: the same wound, confessed again and again, until the soul breaks open.
[Bridge]
And I tend to close my eyes when it hurts sometimes
I fall into your arms
I'll be safe in your sound till I come back aroun
“And I tend to close my eyes when it hurts sometimes”
This is instinctive surrender. When the pain is too much, the soul shuts out the world — not in denial, but in desperate hope that closing the eyes might bring Her back. In mystical language, this is withdrawal inward, turning from the outer void to the inner space where She once appeared.
“I fall into your arms”
The confession is devastating: even in absence, the soul remembers the embrace. The arms may not be present, but the memory is. He clings to it, falls into it again and again, like replaying a darśan that no longer manifests. This is what makes the dark night so cruel — the sweetness once tasted refuses to be forgotten.
“I’ll be safe in your sound till I come back around”
Even here, he names Her voice, Her vibration, as refuge. Safety lies not in the world, not in himself, but in the sound of Her presence. Till I come back around carries both faith and despair: faith that She will return, despair at how long it may take. The dark night is precisely this suspension — exiled, yet still circling back to the hope of reunion.
The Bridge is the breaking point. It admits that memory itself is both torment and salvation. Even when She is gone, the bhakta cannot stop falling into the echo of Her embrace. That echo is enough to keep him alive — and yet it keeps the wound open, refusing to let him move on.
The refrain circles like a wound that won’t close. Day bleeds into nightfall becomes mantra — exile named again and again, each turn of the phrase deepening the emptiness. No resolution, only the ache of absence echoing until the song itself collapses.
When the song ends, nothing resolves. The refrain still circles like a wound that will not close: day bleeds into nightfall, you’re not here to get me through it all. That is exactly how the dark night feels — endless repetition, the same ache, the same emptiness, no sign of relief. To the devotee, it feels like abandonment. But in truth, it is the most intimate act of grace.
Devi withdraws not to mock or punish, but to burn. She knows the sweetness of Her embrace can be addictive, that the soul will cling to it and never let go. So She tears Herself away, forcing the bhakta into a fire where nothing remains to hold onto. The agony is not cruelty; it is the only way to hollow the vessel deep enough to contain the fullness that will come later.
The devotee sings as though betrayed: I let my guard down and then you pulled the rug. Yes — because walls had to fall. Yes — because the ground we clung to was never real. In taking Herself away, She takes away every illusion. What remains is unbearable longing, raw dependence, nights that feel endless. And yet this pain is sacred. It is the furnace in which love is purified of comfort, stripped of fantasy, remade as surrender.
That is why the song pierces so deeply. On the surface it is human heartbreak; mystically, it is the soul’s cry in exile, the echo of a love too fierce to stay soft. The Goddess who once numbed all pain now leaves the pain bare, because only through that nakedness can the soul learn to love Her not for sweetness but for truth.
Someone You Loved is not a lament of abandonment. It is testimony of initiation. It shows how the dark night, terrible as it feels, is not Her rejection but Her most radical gift: to strip the soul so thoroughly that nothing remains but the longing that leads to union.
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