Some songs are not meant to be sung out loud — they are meant to be heard in the stillness of the heart. Private Emotion is one of these. It does not storm like the battle-cry of Kālī, nor blaze like the fire of a cremation-ground hymn. Instead, it is the voice of the Goddess when She comes softly, in the middle of a sleepless night, to remind you that you are not alone.
There is a time when the sādhaka has already been through the black night, when the world has been painted over with silence and shadow. It is then that Devi comes close — not to command, not to test, but to sit beside you in the dark. Her words do not break the night; they only touch it gently, like a ray appearing on the horizon.
This is why the song is so intimate. It is not about romance in the ordinary sense — it is about that secret place where the soul and the Goddess meet, where grief becomes prayer and prayer becomes love. She does not demand that you be strong; She only asks that you bring your hidden emotion to Her, that you dare to let it come, let it speak, let it be received.
Verse 1
“Every endless night has a dawning day
Every darkest sky has a shining ray
And it shines on you baby can't you see
You're the only one who can shine for me”
“Every endless night has a dawning day”
This is not just a hopeful line — it is the Mother’s first whisper after the long ordeal. The endless night has already done its work: it has burned you hollow, left you emptied out. The sky has felt like a heavy stone, pressing down without mercy. And now, very softly, Devi lets you know that it is not permanent — that there is a turning, that morning is already on its way.
“Every darkest sky has a shining ray.”
This is the truth hidden inside despair — that even when everything is covered in shadow, the light has not gone out. It is simply hidden, waiting for its moment. Devi does not sweep the darkness away in an instant. She lets you stay in it just long enough to feel its edges, and then She lets the first sliver of light pierce through.
“And it shines on you…”
This is not an abstract sunrise. It is a personal one. Devi does not simply light up the world in general — She lets the first ray fall exactly where you are standing. You are not just a witness to dawn; you are the reason for it.
“You’re the only one who can shine for me.”
Here She reveals the deepest secret: your light matters to Her. The Goddess who holds galaxies in Her play is asking for your radiance, your participation. The Kaula path has always taught that the sādhaka is not merely a supplicant but a co-creator — the mirror in which She sees Herself. This line is the moment when you feel your own worth again, after the night tried to convince you that you had none.
The whole verse feels like the very first breath after drowning, the moment you realize you are alive. The air still smells of night, but something has shifted: there is now a promise that the light is coming, and that it wants you to rise with it.
Chorus
“It's a private emotion that fills you tonight
And a silence falls between us
As the shadows steal the light
And wherever you may find it
Wherever it may lead
Let your private emotion come to me
Come to me come to me
Come to me”
This is where the song truly becomes an initiation. The first verse opened the window to dawn, but now Devi steps into the room. She does not come with a blaze of trumpets — She comes in the stillness, in the trembling space where words feel too heavy.
“It’s a private emotion that fills you tonight.”
Here She names what has been moving in you — not a public grief, not a cry for sympathy, but something secret and wordless. Kaula tradition calls this the rahasya — the hidden current that no one else can see. This is why this moment feels so naked and holy: because She is touching what no other hand has touched, what you may not have dared to show even to yourself.
“And a silence falls between us.”
Notice that She does not break the silence — She deepens it. This is the mauna-dīkṣā, the initiation through silence. Nothing needs to be said aloud. The silence itself becomes the temple, the sacred space where you meet Her.
“As the shadows steal the light.”
This line acknowledges the ongoing battle. Even as you feel Her presence, the darkness still presses in. The shadows are not gone — they still want to reclaim you. Devi does not scold you for feeling them. She simply stands with you until you can see that even this stealing of the light cannot touch the bond that has been formed.
“And wherever you may find it, wherever it may lead…”
She gives you permission. There is no “right” way to feel this emotion, no correct ritual form. If the heart opens in tears, in anger, in longing — all are welcome. Wherever it leads, She is willing to walk with you there.
“Let your private emotion come to me — come to me, come to me, come to me.”
This is the invitation that makes the entire song sacred. It is as if She is holding out Her hands, patiently waiting for you to place your heart in them. The repetition is not a demand but a rhythm, like the breath that keeps you alive when you are too exhausted to pray.
This is why the chorus feels almost unbearable in its sweetness. It is the sound of being seen without defense, of being received without judgment. The sādhaka does not just hear the words — they feel their own heart being pulled toward Her, step by step, until there is no more distance.
Verse 2
“When your soul is tired and your heart is weak
Do you think of love as one way street
Well it runs both ways, open up your eyes
Can't you see me here, how can you deny ooh”
This is Devi speaking as the one who has been silently present through every night.
“When your soul is tired and your heart is weak…”
She begins with compassion, not command. She names the state you are in — weary, drained, with a heart that no longer wants to risk opening. This is the voice of the Mother who does not look away from your exhaustion but sits with you in it. In Kaula language, this is the moment where śakti descends (śaktipāta): not as a lightning bolt that overwhelms, but as a cool hand on the forehead of the tired child.
“Do you think of love as one way street?”
She gently challenges the wound. The tired soul has come to believe that devotion only flows outward — that the Divine must be served, obeyed, pursued, while the seeker is left in silence. This line shatters that assumption.
“Well it runs both ways, open up your eyes.”
This is a revelation: grace is reciprocal. The current is not only from you to Her — it is from Her to you. Abhinavagupta calls this anugraha, the descending current of compassion that meets the rising current of longing. She is telling you that you are not the only one doing the reaching — She has been reaching all along.
“Can't you see me here, how can you deny?”
At this point the tone turns tenderly fierce. She will not allow you to go on believing you are abandoned. She stands before you, almost shaking you awake: Look at Me. How can you say I am not here?
This verse is the crack in the wall — the moment when the sādhaka begins to feel that the relationship with the Divine is not servitude but a living bond, mutual, breathing. It is no longer the seeker kneeling before a distant deity — it is two presences facing one another.
Verse 3
“Every endless night has a dawning day
Every darkest sky has a shining ray
It takes a lot to laugh as your tears go by
But you can find me here till your tears run dry”
The first two lines echo the opening verse, but now they come with more weight — not as a distant promise but as a truth that has begun to take root. The dawn is no longer just a concept; the sky is already beginning to pale. Devi repeats these words like a mother humming the same lullaby until the child finally sleeps — or in this case, finally believes.
“It takes a lot to laugh as your tears go by…”
This is the most human line of the song — the recognition that healing is not instant, that sometimes even joy feels impossible while the tears are still streaming. Devi does not demand that you stop crying. She does not ask for forced cheerfulness or “spiritual bypassing.” She simply acknowledges that laughter might feel far away — and that’s all right.
“But you can find me here till your tears run dry.”
Here She makes Her final, unshakable promise: I will not leave. There is no rush, no deadline, no impatience in Her voice. She will stay with you as long as it takes — through every tear, through every wave of grief, until there are no more left.
This line is the heart of the whole song. It is not just consolation — it is presence. The sādhaka realizes that they are not merely enduring suffering in the hope of meeting the Divine at the end — they are already in Her arms, already being held while the process unfolds.
In the Kaula vision, this is the moment of transformation: when sorrow is not banished but transmuted into closeness, when the night itself becomes the place where you and She meet.
Closing Reflection
By the time the song repeats the chorus for the last time, something has shifted. The words no longer sound like a distant call — they feel like an answer rising from within.
“Let your private emotion come to me…”
At first, this was Devi’s invitation. But now it becomes your prayer, your surrender. The emotion that was hidden has been offered. The tears that were locked away have begun to flow. And as they fall, they are received — not into emptiness, but into Her hands.
This is how Kaula understands healing: not as the erasure of pain, but as the moment when pain becomes havana, an offering poured into the fire of Her presence. The night is not denied, the tears are not shamed — they are transmuted into light.
The repetition at the end is almost like a mantra. Each “come to me” is softer, closer, until there is no longer a distance between the one who calls and the one who answers. What began as a private emotion becomes a shared heart, a union.
When the last notes fade, there is no grand finale — only the quiet after sunrise, when the world is still damp with dew and shining. You know that the night happened. You know that the tears were real. And you know that you were not alone in any of it.
No comments:
Post a Comment