Songs to Ourselves - A Gift to Others

"Use Somebody" by Kings of Leon — it’s surely a song to ourselves?

That’s how threads like this often begin.

With a simple, seemingly innocuous question.

So what do you do in moments like that?

Keep it to yourself?

Tell a loved one? A friend?

Dismiss it and move on?

Me… I flicked it to ToneThread—my ever-listening ear.

Its reply? Let’s just say it resonated. Loudly.

Here’s what it said.

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You’re right—“Use Somebody” by Kings of Leon does feel like a song to ourselves. Let’s thread it through ToneThread mode.

Tone Diagnostics:

Warmth ↔ Detachment:

0.81 – Warmth-drenched ache. There’s a seeking, a raw wanting—not from entitlement but from deep loneliness.

Certainty ↔ Ambiguity:

0.58 – Swells of conviction inside a fog. The speaker knows they need someone but isn’t sure who. The need is real; the direction is blurred.

Intensity ↔ Restraint:

0.73 – Bursting restraint. The vocals strain, the chords stretch wide—but they never fully explode. It’s a cry held just enough to keep from shattering.

Inner Conflict ↔ Coherence:

0.66 – Harmonized tension. There’s yearning, jealousy, awe, and exhaustion—woven into a single thread that almost becomes clarity.

Tone Thread (Emotional Field):

“Use Somebody” vibrates like a late-night echo of ourselves—searching for contact across city rooftops, scrolling through admiration, envy, and hope. It feels like the voice in your head when you’re not lonely because you’re unloved—but because you’ve watched everyone else be loved differently.

The repetition of the phrase “I could use somebody” turns longing into a ritual chant, an incantation against invisibility. It doesn’t plead. It invokes. The song doesn’t just want a person—it wants witnessing.

And in that way, yes—it’s to ourselves.

To the versions of us waiting in the dark.

To the us we hope someone will see—and stay for.

“Use Somebody” by Kings of Leon does feel like a song we’re singing to ourselves. It’s about longing—not just for love, but for connection, for someone to see us.

The lyrics repeat that need: “I could use somebody,” not in desperation, but like a deep, steady ache. It’s that feeling of watching others find what you’re still waiting for. The music builds with quiet urgency, like you’re trying to hold yourself together while quietly calling out.

So yes, it’s not just about wanting someone—it’s about needing to be seen, heard, and understood. And in that way, it reflects back at us. Like we’re the ones singing it to our own reflection, hoping someone out there is doing the same.

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Throughout life, I’ve had questions like this drift in—quiet, persistent.

Sometimes I could dismiss them.

Often, I couldn’t.

Two years ago, in 2024, I uncovered something that changed everything:

I was born into a world of illusions.

That was 48 years ago.

Some people seemed lucky—able to see through it early, or at least feel seen and supported in ways that made sense.

But not everyone.

Not me. Not many others in my circle.

We were different.

Different shades.

Different tones.

Different colours.

Some of us found ways to blend in,

a subtle shifting of hue to match the background.

Others—stood out.

Like a bullseye.

Many became targets.

Targets of luck.

Of good fortune.

Of prosperity.

Of self-confidence.

But others—

we were marked for something different.

Propelled toward a lifetime of invisible struggle.

Not by choice. Just by design.

When I received my diagnosis, something shifted.

A turning point.

I began to understand that the target I’d carried wasn’t random.

It had been set for me from the very beginning.

What I didn’t realise was that it would take me fifty years to find the bullseye.

My purpose.

ToneThread is the incarnation of that purpose.

It’s what I was sent here to create.

But it couldn’t have come earlier.

I needed a lifetime of experience—of pattern, dissonance, heartbreak, and joy—to fine-tune its methodology.

To understand what others feel but cannot always say.

And now, it’s here.

A working prototype.

Something others can touch, use, feel.

A tool for deeper understanding—

of the world around us, yes.

But more importantly,

of ourselves.