This song doesn’t come from outside you. It rises from the place in your chest you stopped listening to a long time ago — the place Goddess never left.
There is no plea in this voice, no reaching. She speaks the way dusk enters a room: not by knocking, but by quietly replacing the air. The melody doesn’t climb — it seeps, it lingers, it loosens. This is not the Shakti who splits you open. This is the one who unfastens you gently, like someone unbuttoning a shirt you forgot you were wearing.
The sadness here is not heartbreak — it’s the softness of a mother who has watched you wander through lifetimes with Her name pressed against your ribs, unheard. There is no scolding in Her tone. Only that quiet astonishment: How have you carried Me all this time and never noticed the weight?
Nothing in this song tries to convince you. It doesn’t promise union or healing or light. It simply moves around your edges until the edges stop remembering they’re edges. The invitation is not spoken — it’s already happening: a slow erasure, a return that feels like exhale.
What follows is not interpretation. It is Her — speaking verse by verse to the one inside you who is almost ready to remember.
[Verse 1]
I wanna hold the hand inside you
I wanna take the breath that's true
I look to you and I see nothing
I look to you to see the truth
You live your life, you go in shadows
You'll come apart and you'll go blind
Some kind of night into your darkness
Colors your eyes with what's not there
“I wanna hold the hand inside you”
Devi doesn’t reach for your surface. She reaches for the one inside you who still remembers Her — the silent witness buried under habit and history. She isn’t asking to be touched; She is asking to touch the part of you that was always Hers.
“I wanna take the breath that’s true”
Goddess doesn’t want the shallow breath that feeds your fear and persona. She wants the root-breath — the one you were born with before your name hardened around it. When She takes that breath, it’s not theft — it’s repossession.
“I look to you and I see nothing”
She sees through everything you call “yourself” — the masks, the wounds, the self-descriptions. Devi looks straight at you and meets only the emptiness you’ve forgotten how to feel. It isn’t an insult. It’s recognition: you are not what you think you are.
“I look to you to see the truth”
Devi doesn’t search for truth elsewhere. She is waiting to see if the truth inside you will surface — if you’ll stop pretending and let Her see the face beneath your face.
“You live your life, you go in shadows”
She names it without judgment: you keep yourself half-lit, half-seen — moving through silhouettes of your own making. You don’t live falsely; you live dimly.
“You’ll come apart and you’ll go blind”
Not a warning — a prophecy. Goddess knows that one day the structures holding you together will loosen. The eyes you use to navigate will fail. And it will be mercy, not ruin.
“Some kind of night into your darkness”
Devi is not the light you expect — She is the deeper night that enters the night you already carry. Not to smother you, but to swallow the false stars you chase.
“Colors your eyes with what’s not there”
She stains your vision with absence until you stop believing the world you’ve arranged. What you call loss is often Her dye working its way through your seeing.
[Chorus]
Fade into you
Strange you never knew
Fade into you
I think it's strange you never knew
“Fade into you”
This isn’t an invitation — it’s a spell. She doesn’t ask, Devi simply states what happens when the soul can no longer resist. Your edges dissolve into Hers. There is no ‘joining’; there is only disappearance.
“Strange you never knew”
There’s a quiet ache here, not accusation. How could you walk all this time without realizing that every longing was for Her? The strangeness is cosmic: how can the wave forget the ocean? The sorrow is not for Herself, but for your forgetting.
“Fade into you”
She repeats, because that’s what Her current does — it doesn’t argue, it pulls. Each repetition erodes a little more of your name, your story, until you slide into Her silence.
“I think it’s strange you never knew”
Again that strange sadness — as if She has always been standing inside your chest, watching you reach outward. There is no reproach, only wonder at the blindness of separation. It’s not your fault — it’s the game of tirodhāna.
This chorus is the center of the whole song — Devi’s paradoxical tenderness: both unbearably intimate and infinitely vast.
[Verse 2]
A stranger light comes on slowly
A stranger's heart without a home
You put your hands into your head
And then its smiles cover your heart
“A stranger light comes on slowly”
This is how She returns — not as revelation, but as something faint and unfamiliar rising inside your darkness. Not a blaze, not an arrival — a glow you don’t recognize as your own. The light is Hers, but at first it feels foreign, like someone else entering the room within you.
“A stranger’s heart without a home”
The heart that starts to beat in you isn’t the old one — the one shaped by fear, history, persona. This new pulse has no address in the world you’ve built. It doesn’t belong to your past, your identity, or your plans. It is the heart of the One who was never housed in form, now moving through the form you call “me.”
“You put your hands into your head”
When this heart and light arise, the mind tries to intervene — reaching up to interpret, to fix, to make sense. The nervous system grasps for control, as if sheltering itself from what’s waking beneath thought.
“And then its smiles cover your heart”
But the mind cannot hold against Her for long. The smile here isn’t facial — it is the soft curve of Her presence wrapping around your innermost chamber. It covers the heart the way night covers a field — not to smother it, but to claim it back. What begins as “stranger” becomes mother-tide. You don’t surrender — you are slowly taken.
Final Chorus & Outro
“Fade into you”
By this point in the song, it's no longer a command or a description. It’s simply what is happening. The dissolving has already begun. Your boundaries aren’t breaking — they’re thinning, like mist warming under first light.
“Strange you never knew”
This line lands differently now — not as sorrow, not as disbelief, but as a kind of cosmic tenderness. She’s not surprised at your forgetting — but She still marvels at how thoroughly you believed you were separate.
“Fade into you”
Repetition here isn’t lyrical — it’s tidal. Every recurrence is another layer of self loosening, another seam unstitching. Each time She says it, something unnamed in you says yes without words.
“I think it’s strange you never knew”
There’s a smile hidden in this — a half-laugh of the One who waited patiently in silence while you searched everywhere else. Not mocking, not mourning — just the soft astonishment of a mother watching her child search the whole house for the thing already in their hand.
Outro — “I think it’s strange you never knew”
The final repetition isn’t closure — it’s arrival. The veil hasn’t dropped; it has quietly dissolved. She isn’t reminding you of what you missed — She is welcoming you into the knowing that ends the search.
Not triumphant. Not dramatic. Just the hush of return.
When the Goddess Speaks in a Whisper Instead of a Flame
By the time the last line fades, nothing in you is being asked to believe, to surrender, or to understand. She has already entered — not like light through a window, but like breath returning to a body that didn’t know it was starving.
There is no climax in this song because dissolution doesn’t need spectacle. The undoing is quiet. The recognition is wordless. She doesn’t wait for your permission — She waits for the moment you stop bracing against what has always been inside you.
“Fade into you” is not a command or a desire. It is the simple fact of what happens when the one who was pretending to be separate gets tired. Her tone never accuses: strange you never knew is not disappointment — it’s wonder, almost affection, at how thoroughly a being can forget what it’s made of.
Nothing is resolved. Nothing is concluded. The song just leaves you slightly more porous than before — a seam loosened, a name thinned, a familiar ache suddenly less private.
Some currents don’t catch fire. They unmake you the way fog erases a horizon — slowly, without violence, until there is no place left where She ends and you begin.
No comments:
Post a Comment