[Verse 1]
Fold the brain in half, find the seam down the middle,
Medial wall of area six, just ahead of the leg riddle—
M1's foot and ankle sit tucked behind this patch,
SMA's the quiet planner, lighting its own match.
No outside cue required, no flash, no starting gun,
It fires before you move a muscle, before the race is run.
[Chorus]
S-M-A, self-made away,
No cue, no flash, I plan my own play,
Two hands weaving like a braided rope,
Bimanual rhythm, memorized scope,
Push then pull then turn, I hold the chain,
Deep in the medial fold, I run the train.
[Verse 2]
Jun Tanji watched the neurons with a patient scientist's eye,
Found cells that didn't fire for "what," but fired for the "why"—
Not push alone, not turn alone, but the order in the row,
Push then pull then turn, the sequence that they know.
Context cells, context cells, they fire for the plan,
Counting steps ahead like a conductor's steady hand.
[Chorus]
S-M-A, self-made away,
No cue, no flash, I plan my own play,
Two hands weaving like a braided rope,
Bimanual rhythm, memorized scope,
Push then pull then turn, I hold the chain,
Deep in the medial fold, I run the train.
[Verse 3]
Roland took a scanner back in 1980, blood became the clue,
Watched the medial cortex glow before a finger ever moved at all—
Just imagine tapping, one, two, three, and four,
And the SMA lit up as if you'd tapped the floor.
No fingers, no motion, only thought rehearsed,
Proof the plan ignites the brain before the act is first.
[Bridge]
Cut the SMA, watch the trouble start,
One hand turns against you, a stranger with a heart,
Alien fingers grabbing things you never chose,
Frozen moments, akinesia, the body simply froze.
Basal ganglia whisper through the thalamus's door,
Feeding the SMA the current it's been waiting for,
Loop of silent urging, circuit built to start,
Without that quiet whisper, the engine falls apart.
[Chorus]
S-M-A, self-made away,
No cue, no flash, I plan my own play,
Two hands weaving like a braided rope,
Bimanual rhythm, memorized scope,
Push then pull then turn, I hold the chain,
Deep in the medial fold, I run the train.
[Verse 4]
Pre-SMA sits in front, the rookie of the crew,
Switching tasks and breaking habits, learning something new,
SMA proper holds the ladder, rung by rung again,
Dividing labor cleanly between novice and the vet.
Together they rehearse the dance before it's ever seen,
A silent orchestra pit behind life's moving scene,
Two regions of the medial wall, working hand in hand,
Translating raw intention into motion that is planned.
[Outro]
Medial wall, just ahead of the leg,
Self-made mover, never has to beg,
Push then pull then turn, imagined or true,
SMA's the planner living quietly inside of you.