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Introduction
“Cryptid” unfolds like footage you were never supposed to watch. Cavetown positions the listener behind a fogged-up lens, then asks us to turn it off. The track name evokes creatures half-seen in blurry photos—perfect shorthand for a person who no longer recognizes their own captured image.
Refrain
“Slow down, wanna bite your tongue / Turn it off, forget it”
The opening command feels breathless, as if the narrator is coaching themself through a social panic attack. By urging silence and shutdown, they’re wrestling control back from an always-recording world. The broader theme is self-protection—an insistence on muting the relentless commentary loop that comes with life online.
Verse 1
“I’m looking through frosted glass / Like footage through a trail cam’”
The frosted glass blurs both viewer and subject. Trail-cam imagery suggests accidental surveillance, catching someone off-guard under harsh infrared. Cavetown frames self-observation as an ecological hazard: the artist is wildlife, spooked by its own reflection. Identity becomes elusive, scattered across grainy frames.
Chorus
“Delete it / I don’t look like that, that’s a cryptid”
The chorus is a reflexive swipe left. Calling the captured self a “cryptid” names the dissonance between internal self-image and recorded reality. Instead of embracing the strange creature, the narrator opts for erasure. The line points to body dysmorphia and the modern horror of tagged photos—evidence that feels alien.
“Or it’s just a deer in a trap / I’m livid”
Here, the metaphor widens. The trapped deer embodies vulnerability; anger rises not just at the image but at the mechanism that snared it. The digital trap becomes a villain, feeding broader themes of consent and autonomy.
Verse 2
“Do I look funny? Do I scare ya? / Old man creepin’ on the party like a centipede”
The narrator mocks their perceived grotesqueness, piling on self-deprecation before an imagined chorus of onlookers. The centipede simile exaggerates social discomfort, crawling across the dance floor in too many directions.
“Grow up, eat your veggies, go to therapy / Each to their own / But you’re reaching the limit”
Advice becomes scolding, then a snapped boundary. The speaker draws a firm line: self-improvement slogans have worn thin; voyeurism has gone too far. The verse exposes hypocrisy in those who judge while scrolling through private moments.
“Give me your phone / I already know I’m in your history”
Demanding the phone flips the power dynamic. The narrator confronts the spectator, aware of silent screenshots. Themes of surveillance and digital footprints converge—everybody’s camera roll is a potential crime scene.
Chorus (Reprise)
“Delete it… / To see you fall on your ass / That’s the vision”
The second chorus sharpens into vengeance. Deletion is no longer just self-defense; it’s a fantasy of watching the voyeur stumble. Catharsis arrives through shared downfall, expressing the sick satisfaction of escaping a toxic gaze.
Refrain (Return)
“Clock out, brother, flick that thumb / That’s enough, I get it”
The refrain circles back like a notification loop and then hits snooze. “Flick that thumb” reduces doom-scrolling to a physical tic that can be switched off. By repeating the command, Cavetown stages a mantra of disengagement, reinforcing boundaries against overexposure.
Conclusion
“Cryptid” is a snapshot Cavetown refuses to keep. Through jittery imagery and sardonic jabs, the song confronts the way cameras—both literal and metaphorical—distort self-worth. By the final refrain, the narrator hasn’t solved their image issues, but they have reclaimed the power to hit delete, proving that sometimes the most radical act is refusing to be seen on someone else’s terms.
