"There's someone in my head, but it's not me"

The line captures a rift between the observing self and the swarm of voices that populate consciousness. It evokes intrusive thoughts, compulsions, and the eerie familiarity of hearing one’s own mind speak in a cadence that feels foreign. Rather than a simple confession of madness, it sketches a spectrum: anxiety that narrates catastrophes, depression that scripts worthlessness, the internalized parent, teacher, crowd. Each of these “someones” borrows the mouth of the self, until authorship blurs and the speaker feels colonized by a chorus.

There is also the pressure of roles. Modern life manufactures identities that nest inside us, worker, consumer, genius, failure, and they act like ventriloquists. The “not me” might be the persona we perform to stay functional while a quieter self is sidelined. Art complicates this further: creativity can feel like being used by a force, a melody dictating its own path. Pink Floyd’s history adds poignancy; the shadow of Syd Barrett haunts the lyric, suggesting the ache of watching a friend’s mind become an echo chamber where the loudest voice no longer belonged to him.

Philosophically, the line pries at the myth of a unitary self. Neuroscience and contemplative traditions alike describe mind as modular, a parliament rather than a monarch. Most days the voting is smooth; on hard days, a faction seizes the floor. That coup is experienced as estrangement: I am present, yet dispossessed. Still, the statement is not only despair. Naming the “someone” opens a gap where choice can enter, humor, compassion, help, music. The band’s lush soundscapes mirror this inner multiplicity, layering signals until clarity emerges not from silence but from arrangement. To live with the line is to learn curation: distinguishing borrowed voices from a steadier witness, and returning, again and again, to the fragile authority of one’s own breath. That return is hard work.