(intro) Under the ribs, a tide. Under the thoughts, a larger weather. If you can hear your own breath, you are already inside the temple. Not the temple of answers— the temple of conditions. Where the mind unclenches. Where the world is allowed to be real. Where you stop demanding certainty from a burning century and start practicing a more ancient skill: arrival. (verse 1) Let the headlines pass like birds you do not have to catch. Let the doom-scroll loosen its grip on your thumbs. Let the nervous system learn a new sentence: I am here. I am held. I am not late to my own life. Somewhere beneath the ADHD lightning, beneath the polycrisis percussion, there is a quiet intelligence in you that has survived every storm by becoming water. (pre-chorus) Not by winning. Not by proving. By yielding to gravity with dignity. By listening long enough to remember what you are before you become a person again. (chorus) I return to breath, I return to body, I return to now. I return to breath, I return to body, I return to now. Like river to ocean, like thought to silence— I return, I return, I return. (verse 2) There is a kind of magic that doesn’t sparkle. It doesn’t posture. It doesn’t sell itself as light. It is simply the will to be present without turning presence into a performance. If the old magicians carved sigils into wax, if the old saints carved mercy into their voices, then let this be our modest sorcery: a soft vow, repeated until it becomes true. (pre-chorus) Not control—attunement. Not escape—contact. Not purity—relationship. Let the waters do what waters do: carry you forward without asking you to be finished. (refrain) Slow is not failure. Soft is not weak. Still is not stuck. I am learning the tempo of repair. (bridge) (whispered, close-mic) If you are scattered—good. That means you’re porous. That means reality can reach you. Let the sensations be your teachers: temperature, weight, pulse, salt, skin. The mind can plan later. Right now, we practice being human the way the ocean practices being ocean. (chorus) I return to breath, I return to body, I return to now. I return to breath, I return to body, I return to now. Like river to ocean, like thought to silence— I return, I return, I return. (outro) (hummed tones, widening reverb) Water remembers the shape of every shore it has touched. So do you. So do you. (softly) Begin again. Begin again.
