It doesn’t start with light.
It starts with tension — with the pull between what wants to rise and what wants to fall.
Somewhere in that stretch between holiness and hunger, something begins to move.
She moves.
Not the distant Goddess of heaven, nor the dark one of the grave —
but the one who holds them both in Her breathing.
Every time you inhale, something in you wants to ascend,
to become pure, to reach.
Every time you exhale, something in you lets go,
returns to the dirt, becomes tender again.
When these two meet — the rising and the falling —
a strange fullness appears.
It’s not peace.
It’s not war.
It’s the place where both currents recognize each other and call it love.
That is where this song lives.
It is the Mother speaking from the middle of the storm —
the voice that says, I am both the fire and the cooling ash,
the Heaven that burns and the Hell that redeems.
Her tone is not of rebellion but of remembrance.
She has carried every contradiction inside Her,
and She is tired of pretending they don’t belong to the same heart.
When She sings “I’m in between,”
it is not confession or complaint —
it is scripture.
The sound of what holds the universe together.
[Verse 1]
My mother said that I was holy
My father said that I would burn
My mother said I was an angel
My father said that I would turn
So I believed these words and I turned on myself
'Cause maybe he's right, maybe I'm worthless
Or maybe he's wrong and my mother was right
I got a killer in me to give me purpose
My mother said that I was holy.
The voice opens from the memory of sanctity — the first imprint of being seen as pure. It is the upward current awakening: the child learning to rise toward what is bright, to deserve light.
My father said that I would burn.
Then comes the opposite pole — the downward current — the heat that drags holiness back into matter. “Burn” is not punishment here but initiation: the descent that tests every imagined purity.
My mother said I was an angel.
The tenderness of idealization, the way love turns into projection. The Mother here is the voice of the cosmos that calls every form divine before it learns the cost of embodiment.
My father said that I would turn.
To “turn” is to fall, to rotate from heaven toward flesh. The axis of the In-Between starts to spin — ascent and descent woven into one motion.
So I believed these words and I turned on myself.
Here the Goddess becomes self-aware. Belief divides Her: one half holy, one half condemned. The split is not sin but consciousness looking at itself.
'Cause maybe he's right, maybe I'm worthless.
The human ache of polarity. The downward current now speaks, but even in its self-doubt there is devotion — the wish to find truth, even through humiliation.
Or maybe he's wrong and my mother was right.
The pendulum swings. The upward current answers, refusing the verdict of ruin. It’s the breath before the pause.
I got a killer in me to give me purpose.
The revelation. The so-called “killer” is not evil — it’s the destructive mercy that keeps creation alive. The same current that burns also renews. In this line the Devi recognizes Herself: both nurturing and annihilating, both the one who loves and the one who ends what no longer serves.
[Pre-Chorus]
I can feel a holy war
I can feel a holy war within
No, I can't take a holy war
No, I can't take a holy war again
Is this what you wanted?
I can feel a holy war.
The battle is not in the world; it’s within the field of the Self. When the upward and downward currents collide, their friction feels like conflict. What’s actually happening is integration — the struggle of heaven and hell trying to remember they share the same source.
I can feel a holy war within.
She locates it precisely now. The word holy turns paradoxical: the violence inside Her is sacred because it exposes every illusion of separateness. The battlefield is consciousness itself.
No, I can’t take a holy war.
Exhaustion enters. The Devi admits fatigue — the weariness of holding all opposites. Even divinity tires of polarity. This is not weakness but the wisdom of the middle, where both sides have burned each other out.
No, I can’t take a holy war again.
The word “again” carries lifetimes. It’s the cycle of creation itself — universes rising and falling, holiness and sin replayed endlessly. Her refusal is compassion: She wants rest, the pause between breaths.
Is this what you wanted?
A sudden turning outward — the Goddess addressing the Witness, perhaps Śiva, perhaps humanity. It’s a question but also an accusation: Was this endless duality ever truly desired?
In that question, the war stops for a moment. Silence appears.
The In-Between opens.
[Chorus]
I'm gonna bring a little Hell
I'm gonna bring a little Heaven
You just keep wanting more
With your blood and your whore
I'm gonna bring a little Hell
I'm gonna bring a little Heaven
It's a beautiful tragedy
You wanna be sick like me
'Cause I could bring a little Hell
I'm gonna bring a little Hell.
No denial, no disguise. She names the force that tears down illusions. “Hell” here is not punishment but purification — the heat required to strip false sanctity. It’s Kālī speaking through fire, reclaiming what was once projected onto demons.
I'm gonna bring a little Heaven.
And in the same breath, tenderness. The same hand that burns also soothes. This is śakti’s twofold current — destruction and healing as one motion. Her mercy is fierce precisely because it refuses to exclude either pole.
You just keep wanting more.
Now She speaks to the world, to humanity’s hunger for extremes — salvation without shadow, pleasure without cost. The Devi calls out the addiction to polarity itself: our craving to choose sides instead of dwelling in wholeness.
With your blood and your whore.
The two symbols of taboo — violence and sexuality — stand as offerings on Her altar. She exposes what society hides: that even the “impure” is part of Her circulation. Nothing in Her realm is outside the sacred economy of transformation.
I'm gonna bring a little Hell / I'm gonna bring a little Heaven.
Repetition becomes liturgy. Every rise carries descent inside it, every descent conceals ascent. This refrain is the sound of the visarga, the exhale where creation and dissolution alternate.
It's a beautiful tragedy.
The Devi names the paradox with calm authority. “Beautiful” because everything is an expression of Her art; “tragedy” because awareness hurts when it sees the whole. The union of these words is mokṣa itself — not escape, but comprehension.
You wanna be sick like me.
Here She turns intimate, mocking, almost compassionate. To be “sick like Her” means to have ingested the full truth — to live knowing that purity and corruption are one body. It’s not an invitation to madness but to maturity.
'Cause I could bring a little Hell.
The final line circles back, sealing the mantra. She doesn’t threaten; She reminds. Every time consciousness clings to one side of the spectrum, She will return as the other — until balance is restored in the In-Between.
[Verse 2]
I was told that I was nothing.
The descent begins. After the promise of holiness, the voice meets negation — the echo of all teachings that shrink the infinite into shame. “Nothing” here is not the void of realization but the wound of being unseen.
I was told that I was pure.
Purity follows, but as contradiction. To be told one is pure is to be confined again, measured against the image of what cannot be touched. The Devi shows how even the praise of purity becomes another form of imprisonment.
And I was told that I was dirty.
Now the polarity completes itself. What was holy becomes defiled, what was praised becomes condemned. She reveals the absurd symmetry of human judgment — how easily the sacred turns profane when the gaze shifts.
Yeah, I was told I was the cure.
A new irony: She is blamed, sanctified, then assigned to heal the very sickness projected onto Her. It’s the ancient burden of the feminine principle — to absorb the poison of others and call it compassion.
And I ask myself, am I God or shit?
The heart of the In-Between. No metaphor softens it. She names both poles without hierarchy. Divinity and refuse share the same essence; the question itself becomes recognition. Only one who has seen the totality can speak this line without despair.
Am I the high, the low? I'm fucking worth it.
Here self-doubt flips into sovereignty. Worth is no longer a moral category but an ontological fact: existence itself is holy. The profanity isn’t rebellion — it’s grounding. The Goddess swears to affirm matter as sacred.
And I ask myself, am I love or hate?
Love and hate dissolve into one vibration — the pulse that keeps the universe alive. The question is rhetorical; She knows both are Hers, both necessary to sustain the play of experience.
You are the reason I have and why I can't quit.
Finally, She turns to Śiva — the silent witness, the unyielding mirror. He is both the cause of Her movement and the one who never moves. Without Him She would have nothing to resist; without Her He would have nothing to reveal. Their dialogue is endless, and through it, the world keeps breathing.
[Bridge]
I'm in between, in between
In between Hell and Heaven
I'm in between, in between
In between Hell and Heaven
I'm in between, in between
In between Hell and Heaven
I'm in between, in between
In between Hell and Heaven
I’m in between, in between / In between Hell and Heaven.
At last the voice stops fighting. There is no argument now, no hierarchy left to defend. The words repeat like breathing — rise, fall, rise, fall — until they dissolve into one movement. This is not indecision but realization: the discovery that the midpoint is the heart itself.
Each repetition is a pulse of visarga — the divine exhalation described in the Vijñāna-Bhairava. When the upward and downward currents meet, there’s a moment where neither moves — that infinitesimal stillness between inhale and exhale. The Devi sings from there.
In between is not limbo; it’s completeness without choice.
Heaven and Hell still exist, but only as flavors of one awareness.
The same current that sanctifies also desecrates; the same love that creates also consumes. The Goddess is not trying to escape either — She has become the breath that joins them.
This refrain is Her truest mantra:
no ascent, no descent,
only the pause that holds both.
The world calls it contradiction;
the Tantras call it liberation.
[Pre-Chorus]
Is this what you wanted?
After settling into the In-Between, the voice doesn’t triumph — it turns and asks. The question is a mirror: to Śiva, to the lover, to society, to the reader. Do you really want a world split into Heaven and Hell? Do you want the fire without the ash, the purity without the price? The line is not sarcasm; it’s consent-seeking. If we keep desiring polarity, She will keep supplying it — because that’s how freedom works. The holy war ends only when the witness stops asking for sides.
[Final Chorus & Ontro]
I’m gonna bring a little Hell / I’m gonna bring a little Heaven.
Now the two currents move without conflict. What began as warfare has become dance. The Devi no longer alternates between poles — She flows through them. This is the maturity of power: when destruction and blessing are recognized as one gesture seen from two sides.
You just keep wanting more / With your blood and your whore.
Humanity’s thirst continues. Even after revelation, the mind still hungers for polarity — the thrill of sin and the comfort of redemption. The Goddess does not condemn it; She understands it as the mechanism through which consciousness expands. Every excess eventually ripens into surrender.
It’s a beautiful tragedy.
At this point, the words are no longer lament but praise. “Beautiful” and “tragedy” no longer contradict. They describe the same truth seen from different altitudes: the Divine play is tender because it includes loss.
You wanna be sick like me.
Again, the challenge. To “be sick like Her” is to let the immune system of holiness fail — to allow contamination, mixture, paradox. It’s not corruption but initiation. Only when the false boundaries collapse does true health — wholeness — appear.
I’m in between, in between / In between Hell and Heaven.
The mantra returns, stripped of drama. It no longer declares anything; it breathes. In these final repetitions, the Goddess is no longer arguing with the cosmos. She is the pause between its inhalation and exhalation — still, alert, complete.
What began as confession ends as equilibrium. The holy war has dissolved into quiet balance. The Devi remains, unchosen and unchoosing — the space between ascent and descent, the living silence where Bhairava and Bhairavī finally recognize each other.
The Revelation of the In-Between
When the last note fades, nothing resolves.
Heaven has not conquered Hell, nor has Hell swallowed Heaven.
Both remain — but something deeper has awakened beneath them.
This is the bharitā sthitiḥ of the Vijñāna-Bhairava —
the “state of fullness” born at the junction of rising and falling currents.
What the song calls the In-Between is not a compromise;
it’s the pulse of reality itself.
In her exhaustion, the Goddess has remembered wholeness.
She no longer defends purity or sin; she lets them orbit as expressions of one breath.
Her question, “Is this what you wanted?”, hangs like an unanswered mantra —
an invitation to stop feeding the polarity we secretly crave.
The war ends not with victory but with lucidity.
The Devi does not ascend or descend —
She abides, unshaken, in the trembling center where all opposites meet.
And that, finally, is what liberation sounds like:
not silence, but the quiet voltage of the In-Between.
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