[Verse 1] When I wake up in the morning There isn’t a “me” all at once There’s just some awareness Floating in an ill-defined space Then sensations gather Images form A thought appears — “Where am I?” “What time is it?” And a little later The whole psychosocial self Boots back online [Pre-Chorus] You can say it’s just the brain Shifting states in a body in a room Or you can say Reality is crystallizing Out of something like nothing I don’t feel the need to choose [Chorus] Maybe pattern is more basic than stuff Maybe the world is habits of perception Regularities we agreed to trust Not a solid stage beneath everything We build physics from patterns Then treat the patterns like stone But what if “stone” is just The most stable story we’ve told? [Verse 2] Science is beautiful I spend my life inside it But I don’t feel That particles are the final ground The data we call “reality” Is a web of relations A history of observations Condensed into law You can do engineering Without assuming There’s an absolute thing Behind the equations [Pre-Chorus] First there is raw experience Then reaction Then relationship — And pattern lives in relationship Maybe “objective matter” Is just one very successful pattern In the mind [Chorus] Maybe pattern is more basic than stuff Maybe we are relations in motion Minds are knots in a larger weave Temporarily calling themselves “me” We rise like structure in noise Convincing ourselves we’re solid But under the form and the name It’s process, all the way down [Bridge] I don’t need one clean story I can hold contradictions The engineer and the mystic Sharing the same skull If there are things we don’t understand Psi, mind, strange phenomena Maybe it’s new physics Or physics that’s wider than we thought If there’s a probability you can write If there’s a model you can build Why say “not physics”? Why draw the border there? [Final Chorus] Maybe pattern is more basic than stuff Maybe the self is a recurring wave In a field that doesn’t belong To space and time alone We crystallize, we dissolve Stories the field tells locally And when the noise of the person gets quiet What’s left feels strangely kind Not proven Not a theorem Just what remains When the mind is still
