When Wanting Outlives Belief: “Give Me More”

This song does not scream.
It doesn’t threaten.
It doesn’t break anything open.

It idles.

What you hear is not desire in bloom, nor despair in collapse, but the thin mechanical sound of continuation after meaning has already been withdrawn. Nothing dramatic is happening — and that is exactly what makes it unsettling.

“Give Me More” is not a cry for fulfillment.
It is the echo of wanting after wanting has been exposed as futile.

Understanding is already present here.
There is no hope left to shatter.
No illusion left to puncture.

What remains is habit — the mouth still making the motion, the wheel still turning, the body still waking up — even though no one expects anything to arrive.

This is not the voice of Dhumavati.
It is the voice of the one left standing after She has passed through.

Dry. Awake. Unrescued.

Listen to this song the way you listen to a machine running in an empty building:
not to feel something,
but to notice what keeps going when belief is gone.

Verse 1

 “This will never end ’cause I want more

More, give me more, give me more”

This line is already post-illusion.

There is no confusion here.
No hope that “more” will satisfy.
No belief that anything new will arrive.

The understanding is already in place —
and yet the mechanism keeps turning.

This is karma stripped to its skeleton.

Not desire as passion.
Not desire as longing.
But desire as reflex.

Like a child who already knows the answer is no,
already has his bag packed,
already stands at the door —
and still says: one more minute.

Not to win.
Not to negotiate.
Just because the mouth still knows the motion.

“This will never end” is not despair.
It’s diagnosis.

As long as “I want” fires automatically,
continuation fires automatically.

Dhumāvatī has already done her work here:

• fulfillment is gone

• meaning is gone

• promise is gone

What remains is the ghost-movement of ego —
wanting without belief, asking without expectation.

That’s why the line loops.
Not to intensify.
To expose how empty the loop already is.

No Devi speaking yet.
No verdict.
Just the wheel turning on air.

Verse 2

“If I had a heart, I could love you
If I had a voice, I would sing”

This is not an emotional lament.
It is a functional diagnosis.

Heart here means the capacity to be affected —
to register impact, to be displaced by contact, to be altered by another.

Not affection.
Not warmth.
Responsiveness itself.

Saying “If I had a heart” means: the interface that allows anything to land is offline.

Voice here does not mean sound or expression.
It means agency of response.

The ability to answer what meets you —
to reply in a way that changes something.

Saying “If I had a voice” means: I can witness what happens, but I cannot intervene.

The world continues to address the speaker,

but the speaker can no longer answer back.

“After the night when I wake up
I’ll see what tomorrow brings”

This is not hope.

It is procedural continuation.

Time advances because time advances.
Morning arrives because it does.

Tomorrow is not anticipated or feared —
it is merely observed, like weather.

This is life after meaning has been withdrawn
but before motion has stopped.

What this verse establishes:

• Desire still loops 

• But the organs of engagement are gone

• No capacity to be moved

• No capacity to respond

What remains is existence without participation.

It is the devotee after the withdrawal of Shakti — alive, aware, and unable to enter the exchange.

Chorus

“Ah-ah-ah”
“If I had a voice, I would sing”

This is not wordless emotion.
It is sound without agency.

The mouth produces noise,
but there is no speech-act behind it.

That matters.

The “ah” is breath passing through a body that is still alive,
but no longer able to answer the world.

So when the line repeats — “If I had a voice, I would sing” —
it’s not contradiction.
It’s demonstration.

The speaker is not mute.
They are unanswered.

They can echo, hum, exhale —
but cannot enter dialogue.

This is the exact state Dhumāvatī leaves behind:

• life continues

• expression continues

• but participation is gone

The chorus does not escalate.
It suspends.

No catharsis.
No build.
Just circulation of emptiness.

Verse 3

“Dangling feet from window frame
Will they ever ever reach the floor?”

This is not a plan.
It’s a suspension image.

The body appears only to mark in-between-ness —
not acting, not arriving, not grounded.

Feet that don’t touch the floor =
no contact, no landing, no participation in weight-bearing reality.

The question is not will I fall?
It’s will I ever arrive anywhere at all?

This is existence paused mid-gesture.

“Cushion filled with all I found
Underneath and inside, just to come around”

This is scavenging, not building.

The speaker gathers fragments — memories, objects, meanings —
not to construct a future, but to buffer continuation.

A cushion doesn’t change direction.
It only softens contact.

Everything collected here serves one function:
to keep going without resolution.

“More, give me more, give me more” (returns)

Now the phrase is fully exposed.

It no longer sounds like hunger.
It sounds like irony without laughter.

The request keeps looping even as the body goes nowhere.
Understanding is present.
Motion persists anyway.

This is karma running after belief has expired.

What this verse completes?

• The body reappears, but only as suspended

• Desire repeats, but without hope

• Collection replaces creation

• Continuation replaces choice

Nothing escalates.
Nothing resolves.

The song does not move toward crisis —
it moves toward stasis.

This is the devotee living inside the remainder after subtraction is complete.

After Subtraction

This song doesn’t resolve because there is nothing left to resolve.

“Give Me More” ends exactly where it began: with motion continuing after purpose has collapsed. No breakthrough, no surrender, no revolt. Just the quiet persistence of a mechanism that no longer believes in itself.

That’s its honesty.

Nothing here asks to be saved. Nothing expects reply. The wanting repeats not because it hopes, but because repetition is what karma does when insight has already arrived and nothing has yet replaced it.

This is not failure.
It’s a phase most traditions rush past or romanticize.

Here it’s left exposed:
existence without participation, desire without fantasy, time without promise.

The song doesn’t offer a way out — and that’s appropriate.
What it documents is the remainder: what stays when Devi has withdrawn, when illusions are gone, and when the wheel is still turning on empty.

No fire.

No grace.

Just the machine running — until it doesn’t.