Brainstorm’s Maybe: From ‘Mine’ to ‘Maybe’ — The Ego’s Gentle Surrender

The Ego’s Slow, Beautiful Crumble

Brainstorm’s “Maybe” is not just a quirky pop song — it is a spiritual process in disguise.
At first, it sounds like a chant of possession: my body, my hand, my heaven, my land.
It is the voice of the ego in full bloom, proudly counting everything it owns — even its guardian angel, even its beer.

But the magic of this song is what happens next.
Somewhere between “my crown” and “my Corona with lime,” the voice of possession starts to sound absurd — and the first crack appears.
What begins as an anthem of control starts to soften into the hesitant, trembling word maybe.

That “maybe” is everything.
It is the first surrender, the first loosening of the grip.
And with each verse, the fortress of “mine” crumbles a little more — until by the final chorus, the word “maybe” is no longer timid but sacred, repeated like a mantra, carrying the full weight of love.

This song is not about instant enlightenment.
It is about the long, human, messy process of loosening the clutch of ego — with humor, with vulnerability, with hesitation — until we are finally ready to share even our animals, even our shadows, even ourselves.

Verse 1: The Ego’s List, the Goddess’ Smile

My body, my hand
My heaven, my land
My guardian angel is mine
And you say...
My dreams, my head
My sex, my bed
And it's my Corona with lime

The ego begins like a child showing off its toys:
“My body, my hand!” — as if the body was not borrowed from the earth and destined to return to it.
“My heaven, my land!” — as if the sky could be owned, as if the soil were not silently reclaiming every king who ever said “mine.”
Even the angel is claimed — “my guardian angel is mine” — as though grace itself could be drafted into personal service.

Then comes the softer layer: “my dreams, my head” — but even dreams rise and dissolve on their own, like clouds no one can hold.
“my sex, my bed” — even pleasure is a passing guest.
And then — the line that breaks the spell:

And it’s my Corona with lime.

Here the Goddess laughs.
All the grandeur of “my heaven, my land” collapses into something silly, almost tender.
The ego has revealed its secret — that all its possessions, from angel to beer, are held with the same fragile grasp.
And in that moment, we cannot help but smile with compassion — because we see ourselves.
We have all said “my” to things that were never ours.

This verse becomes the first initiation: a gentle invitation to loosen the grip, to see that none of it was truly ours — not to shame us, but to free us.
The Corona with lime is not just humor — it is grace, the first wink of Devi saying:

“You can put it all down now.
Look, even you are laughing.”

First Chorus: The First Crack of Surrender

But then I say
Maybe we could divide it in two
Maybe my animals live in your zoo

This is the turning point.
After the grand litany of “my” comes the first hesitation: maybe.
It is small, but it is revolutionary.

“Maybe we could divide it in two” — the ego, once obsessed with possession, begins to wonder about sharing.
The fortress door opens a crack.
What was once tightly hoarded might now be split — body, land, even dreams.

And then the most revealing line:

Maybe my animals live in your zoo.

This is a mystical confession.
“My animals” — all the instincts, the shadowy drives, the wild creatures of the psyche — perhaps they are not only mine.
Perhaps they are mirrored, echoed, understood by another.
Perhaps what I called “mine” was never fully separate, and my darkness already has a home in your world.

This is the first surrender, not total but enough to make the ground shake.
The ego is not bowing yet, but it is curious.
It is Devi’s favorite moment — when the proud heart is finally soft enough to whisper:

“Maybe we are not so separate after all.”

Verse 2: The Crown that Slips

And you say...
My hate, my frown
My kingdom, my crown
My palace and court is mine
And you say...
My light, my show
My years to grow
The time that I spend is fine

Here the ego rallies — like a king adjusting a slipping crown.
“My hate, my frown” — the speaker even claims pain as property, unwilling to let go of grievance.
“My kingdom, my crown, my palace and court” — the language of royalty returns, as though the first “maybe” never happened.

But listen closely: the voice is no longer triumphant — it is almost defensive.
It is as if the ego is saying, “Don’t take these from me too. These are mine.”
Even its suffering is clutched like a favorite toy.

And then it grows gentler:
“My light, my show” — the persona, the performance —
“My years to grow” — a soft admission that it is still learning —
“The time that I spend is fine” — as if trying to justify its existence, reassure itself that it has not wasted its life.

This verse is not just possession — it is vulnerability peeking through the language of power.
Devi lets the ego speak until it hears itself, until it realizes that all these claims are just a child clutching sand.

And then — the chorus returns, the “maybe” growing stronger.
The fortress is cracking faster now.

Second Chorus: The Heart Steps Forward

But then I say
Maybe we could divide it in two
Maybe my animals live in your zoo
Then I say maybe
Maybe I'm in love with you

This time, the chorus lands deeper.
The first “maybe” has grown roots — it is no longer a half-joking suggestion, it is the start of a vow.

The sharing becomes real:
“Divide it in two” now feels less like a hypothetical and more like an invitation.
The ego is not only willing to split its treasures — it is ready to let its shadows walk into the other’s life, to risk being seen fully.

And then comes the great turning:

Maybe I’m in love with you.

This is the first time the word “love” appears — and it comes with hesitation, but not denial.
It is the trembling voice of someone standing on the edge of a cliff, ready to fall.
The ego that once claimed everything now risks its most guarded truth:

“I am not complete by myself.
Something in me bows to you.”

This chorus is the first genuine act of surrender.
Not total — there is still a “maybe” — but the fortress has a wide open gate now.
Devi smiles here, because this is when devotion is born: when “mine” becomes “ours,” and “ours” begins to dissolve into “you.”

Verse 3: The Last Grasp of Control

And you say...
My coat, my hat
My bones, my fat
My zipper is shut by me
And you say...
My skin, my blood
My devil, my God
My freedom is what you see

This is the ego’s last stand — but now it sounds more like a nervous joke than a royal decree.

“My coat, my hat” — the possessions grow smaller, almost childlike.
“My bones, my fat” — the list has become so intimate it borders on absurd, as if the ego is saying:

“Fine — even my very flesh is mine, don’t take that too.”

“My zipper is shut by me” — this is the most revealing line.
Here is the ego’s final boast: “I control what is open and closed. I decide what you can access.”
But by saying it aloud, it exposes its fear — it is not a statement of power but of fragility, the terrified child clutching the door shut.

And then the ultimate claim:
“My skin, my blood, my devil, my God” — everything from the most physical to the most transcendent is swept into the last inventory of “mine.”
“My freedom is what you see” — but by now we know this freedom is brittle, a cage disguised as liberty.

This verse is not a victory — it is a confession.
The ego has emptied its pockets, shown everything it can claim.
And having listed it all, it has nothing left to hold onto.
The next chorus will come like a wave, washing over the little pile of “mine” and leaving only the naked “maybe.”

Final Chorus & Outro: The Prayer of Maybe

But then I say
Maybe we could divide it in two
Maybe my animals live in your zoo
Then I say maybe
Maybe I'm in love with you
But then I say
Maybe we could divide it in two
Maybe my animals live in your zoo
Then I say maybe
Maybe I'm in love with you

My beginning, my end
My nuclear bomb to pretend
My beginning, my end
My nuclear bomb

But then I say
Maybe we could divide it in two

Here the song becomes a mantra.
The “maybe” that once sounded hesitant now becomes almost hypnotic — repeated until it feels like a ritual offering, the sound of the ego melting.

“Divide it in two” is no longer a compromise — it is a willingness to break oneself open, to split apart the false unity of “mine” so that something larger can be born.
Even the “animals” — the shadow drives, the primal urges — are brought forward, no longer hidden.

And then comes the nuclear line:

My beginning, my end
My nuclear bomb to pretend

This is the shattering.
The ego admits that even its beginnings and endings, its whole timeline, have been a performance.
The “nuclear bomb” is the moment of detonation — the false self blowing apart, leaving only the raw center.
This is where Kaula masters would say śaktipāta happens — grace strikes, annihilates, and remakes.

The outro’s last line —

Maybe we could divide it in two

— is not hesitant anymore.
It is an offering.
The fortress is gone, the crown is gone, the zipper is open, and the ego stands bare, whispering:
“Take half, take all — I am ready.”

This is no longer ego’s “maybe.”
It is Devi’s invitation, spoken through the ego’s mouth — the soft, smiling dare to step fully into love.

When “Maybe” Becomes a Prayer

By the time “Maybe” reaches its last chorus, the proud litany of “my” has been exhausted.
The ego has shown us its treasures, its crowns, its wounds, even its zipper — and in doing so, it has emptied itself.
What began as possession ends as offering.

The word maybe no longer sounds like hesitation — it sounds like devotion.
It has become a mantra, repeated until it glows, until it carries the weight of a vow.
“Divide it in two” is no longer a bargain but a surrender: a willingness to let love split the illusion of separateness, to let the animals of the psyche walk freely in another’s world, to finally let yourself be seen.

Even the nuclear line — “my beginning, my end, my nuclear bomb to pretend” — is not destruction for its own sake.
It is the explosion that clears the ground for something real to grow.
What dies here is not life but the pretense of ownership.
And what is born is intimacy, vulnerability, love.

This song ends not with certainty but with invitation — with a “maybe” that is no longer fearful but wide open.
It leaves us at the threshold, smiling a little at ourselves, a little at the Goddess, and whispering: