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The Morphodynamic Theory
of Consciousness

Philippe Ingels
(45 minute read)

A theatre performer was once asked to explain the orbital mechanics of Mercury using only his facial expressions. It was a spectacular show, but he failed—not for want of trying, but because facial expressions simply aren’t the right medium for conveying spacetime curvature, gravitational equations, or relativistic corrections.
 

How odd it is that, after millennia of philosophical effort, we have made so little progress in solving the enigma of consciousness. It’s complex, we declare with a semblance of gravitas, before resuming our aimless circling. Yet the reason may be that, like the hapless performer, we are using the wrong language. Our natural, formal, and even mystical languages, though insightful in their own domains, seem utterly inadequate for describing the subjective and the objective within a single framework. And we need to do this because without a language capable of bridging the subjective and the objective, we cannot truly understand either in isolation, since each is always already entangled with the other in the very act of being conscious of anything at all. However, we don’t even have a language for each of them. Every language we possess—mathematical, natural, symbolic, or embodied—has evolved or been devised to chart the objective world. Trying to press these languages into service to explain consciousness is like attempting to measure the softness of a pillow with a thermometer. The tool simply isn’t designed for that purpose. At best, such languages can evoke the subjective, but they cannot formally describe it from within.
 

The Morphodynamic Theory of Consciousness holds that consciousness emerges from the dynamic organisation of fundamental, neutral elements whose nature is meaning in its most basic form: the type of difference one element can make to another. The evolving forms and patterns—the morphodynamics—are generated through an underlying generative language.

In this essay, I shall examine several key questions that arise from this theory. These include: what exactly constitutes these fundamental meaning-making elements; how their interactions produce emergent morphodynamic patterns; in what sense a generative language underlies this process; and how such a framework might allow us to address the intractable questions surrounding the nature of conscious awareness and intelligence, as well as the evolution of the mind and its interface with matter.
 

It is not really surprising that consciousness itself has offered us the key to uncovering this generative language. It is, after all, the primary it-ness of our existence—the most immediate and self-evident phenomenon we can encounter. It is the ground of all experience and knowledge, without which no inquiry or observation would be possible. In this most basic sense, it is almost inevitable that consciousness would eventually reveal the generative language that underlies its own emergence.

​

The big question, however, is why it has taken us so long to recognise and formalise it.

You can’t know what you can’t describe

The need for a new language

Different systems of language impose distinct frameworks of understanding. They shape the way we interpret problems, the assumptions we make, and the boundaries of what is thinkable. It is like sitting inside a box with holes punched through the sides. Each hole offers a unique perspective, but you cannot discover anything about the roof by looking through the hole near your foot. The wrong language will forever keep us circling the periphery of the solution we hope to find. In the case of consciousness, this has been our situation for centuries.
 
What we need is a new kind of formal language—one capable of describing both the objective and the subjective, not merely in metaphorical terms but in a constructive, explanatory way. It must reveal how mind, especially consciousness, and matter arise as different yet related forms of organisation from the most fundamental level of reality. Only such a language can demonstrate how consciousness is part of the universe, rather than standing apart as some ethereal anomaly.
 
Yet here we face a Kuhnian predicament. Thomas Kuhn observed that scientific revolutions require a shift in the entire paradigm through which we apprehend the world. Crucially, such a shift cannot be fully articulated using the vocabulary and assumptions of the old paradigm. It’s like an ice cube trying to understand what it’s like to be a liquid. To do so, it must first become a liquid, but until it does, it cannot comprehend the nature of liquidity from within the fixed and frozen logic of its own condition. However, the very act of melting requires it to grasp something of liquidity in advance—something it cannot yet know as an ice cube.
 
In this case, the language we need must already transcend the conceptual constraints that keep us in ignorance. Without it, we cannot even formulate the problem properly, let alone resolve it. We find ourselves in a bind: compelled to develop a new paradigm from within the very one that renders the task impossible.
 
Developing such a language may seem as daunting as solving the mystery of consciousness itself. In a very real sense, it is the same problem. And yet we have no choice but to attempt it. The stakes are unnervingly high. If we fail to make this transition, our progress will slow to a dispirited crawl. We will drag ourselves across an increasingly desolate intellectual landscape until the fevered heat of frustration bakes us into dust. The old paradigm has given us only half a world, half an understanding, and half an identity. One foot planted in the empirical, the other still mired in the discredited realm of the mystical. That “woo-woo” half contributes virtually nothing to scientific or technological progress—yet we cannot quite pull our foot free of the sticky mud.
 
How much are we missing in physics and technology because we have failed to account for half of reality? How much worse will mental health and social fragmentation become if psychology continues to rely solely on behavioural inference, while the main star of the play—consciousness itself—remains unmeasured and formally inaccessible? And at what point will our dazzling progress in AI grind to a halt because of economic, energy and computational constraints simply because we still have no idea how to make machines think, feel, or understand as we do?
 
If we continue building our brick tower without mortar, it will inevitably collapse.

Something has to be authoring reality

The language of creation

The good news is that we do have a way to resolve our Kuhnian predicament. The descriptive language we need to illuminate the mysteries of consciousness is already available to us. Indeed, it is the most familiar of all: the foundational mode of expression from which every other language—natural, formal, and symbolic—ultimately emerges.

This proto-language, embedded in the architecture of sentient life and expressed in the functioning of any organism with a central nervous system, has simply never been formalised. Yet it is there, active and shaping the very fabric of cognition well before any of it is passed on to the mind’s conscious awareness. The challenge, then, is not to invent a new language but to recognise the one that familiarity has rendered invisible—and to give it formal structure.

The artist uses this pre-verbal proto-language. It is underpinned by the sense of things: the sense of form, flow, proportion, and presence. Creativity for the artist is the art of sensing how forms relate in space; of feeling rhythm, pacing, tension, and release; of grasping wholes and patterns before any conceptual articulation; of a rightness that is sensed long before it is reasoned.

For the artist, it is not a formal language. It is a felt grammar of being. You do not learn it by definition—as I have experienced first-hand—but know it by doing, by noticing, by waiting for it to reveal itself. It is a pre-conceptual feel for how things hold together, move, and carry meaning—beneath both words and numbers.

We have long regarded this “sense of things” as either discrete feelings—an aha moment or a gut intuition that erupts like a lightning bolt—or as a continuous undercurrent that quietly guides our reasoning. As such, we have categorised it as a feeling to be filed in the same cabinet as bodily feelings and emotional experiences. This is a significant mistake, because the question we never asked was: what if our experience of “the sense of things” is, in fact, the echo of a far more sophisticated language—the language of cognition itself? That, as it turned out, was the right question to ask.

This idea is hardly far-fetched when we consider that the mind—or more precisely, consciousness—possesses a surprisingly rich and multifaceted array of “senses,” or internal dimensions of awareness. These are not merely sensory in the ordinary, perceptual sense, but forms of mental orientation and subjective attunement to various aspects of reality, both within and without. We have a sense of distance, direction, location, magnitude, belonging, scale, curvature, time, change, and much more besides—in fact, our entire experience of reality is the sense of something.

The question is whether these senses of things can be broken down into more fundamental elements—and, if so, whether we might then uncover a formal language capable of finally explaining the phenomenon of consciousness itself.

At the very bottom, there will be something strange

The strangely familiar
 
Let’s turn to the physical, for a moment. We must accept that, at the most fundamental level, physical reality cannot rest on nothingness; it must consist of something whose very existence is secured by its determinate nature. To be at all is to be some particular kind of thing. Every existent is inseparable from—and defined by—what it is.
 
Yet this nature is not the familiar manifold of spacetime, matter, or forces. Contemporary fundamental physics acknowledges as much, proposing that the substrate underlying matter and forces might take the form of quantum fields, strings, spin networks, or some as-yet-unknown entity. Nevertheless, for methodological reasons, physicists must bracket this uncomfortable somethingness: such claims are neither falsifiable nor testable within the current empirical framework.
 
Still, whatever its form, Flowmonics proposes that beneath the physical lies a more fundamental neutral substrate from which physical reality emerges. Its own nature cannot therefore already be intrinsically spatial, material or mental. The Morphodynamic Theory proposes that this deeper level consists of primitive meaning-making elements: differences capable of making differences to one another.
 
This strangeness is compounded by the fact that consciousness presents itself as a flow of structurally complete thoughts and experiences. Whether these arrive coherent, fragmentary, or ambiguous is secondary to the more arresting fact that they come already assembled, composed of elements and patterns that remain invisible within experience itself.
 
It is therefore likely that consciousness emerges from more fundamental constituents whose nature, structure, or interactions are not immediately evident from the vantage point of our awareness. It is much like how fields are not apparent when observing particles, or how code is hidden when looking at a character in a game. These elements may, at first glance, appear strange or even alien relative to what consciousness feels like.
 
If these fundamental constituents are meaning-making, as the Morphodynamic Theory proposes, then information must be understood as something that emerges from their relationships rather than as the fundamental substance itself. When one difference affects the possibilities available to another, dependency and informational structure begin to appear. And since our own awareness is ultimately proposed to arise from increasingly complex organisations of these same elements, their nature should, in some way, remain accessible or intelligible to us.
 
We should therefore expect the generative substrate of consciousness—the foundational elements and the syntax of whatever new descriptive language we devise or uncover—to appear at once eerily familiar and utterly strange. I will show that this is the case.

What if language creates more than just mental pictures?

Morphodynamic Theory

To recap: the Morphodynamic Theory proposes a new generative language from which mind and matter emerge. If confirmed, it would mark the first step in lifting the constraints on understanding imposed by our established languages. It claims that the most fundamental layer of reality consists of neutral meaning-making elements whose nature resembles the sense-ness that becomes available to us at the emergent level of consciousness.
 
I will show that:
 

  • There is a deeper, common layer beneath mind and matter. This is the underlying unity that a philosophy called Neutral Monism has long sought as the true basis of both mental and physical phenomena.
     

  • This layer has identifiable basic forms—fundamental elements.
     

  • These elements behave according to a formal structure—a kind of proto-grammar or syntax—that gives rise to all known phenomena.
     

  • This structure constitutes a generative language of reality.
     

In this theory, the most fundamental stratum of reality consists neither of matter nor of mind, nor even of information in the conventional sense. It consists of primitive meaning: elements whose nature lies in the particular kinds of difference they can make.

What emerges into conscious awareness at vastly higher levels are the senses of things: the sense of somethingness, distance, direction, movement, time, space, relationship, rhythm, colour, touch, sound, smell, taste, feeling, and so on.
 

Flowmonics proposes that these are not arbitrary qualities mysteriously added by consciousness. They reveal something of the difference-making vocabulary from which consciousness itself is constructed.
 

This does not mean that a primitive Sensicle is already a conscious sensation or that blue-ness exists at the foundation exactly as we consciously experience blue. Rather, a Sensicle has a singular difference-making nature that can participate in higher-order organisations whose eventual conscious expression we recognise as blue-ness, magnitude, position, relation and so forth.
 

There is nothing deeper within the theory from which that primitive nature is constructed. At some point explanation reaches the basic differences from which further differences can be generated.
 

I call these fundamental elements Sensicles.


So if you insist that everything must be made of something else, spiralling down in an infinite regress, you will have to look outside our reality for your answer. Good luck with that. However, if this still feels somewhat unsatisfactory (it does to me), Morphodynamic Theory at least pushes our conceptual understanding a step closer to an intuitively satisfying one. It takes us right up to the edge of our reality—and then hints at what lies beyond.
 

The stuff of minds

Sensicles

To make any sense of the nature of Sensicles, you must be attuned to the pre-verbal language in which your mind primarily operates. Put differently, you must learn to think in that proto-language if you wish to grasp it at all. This often requires effort. Our rational mind relies heavily on natural language, which tends to obscure the Sensicle language by operating at a higher plane of emergence. It is like trying to see fine details painted on a canvas through a layer of frosted glass—our natural language blurs direct perception of the proto-language from which it emerges. Yet that is precisely what is required: without this attunement, it becomes far more difficult to appreciate the true nature of the elements, syntax, and grammar that compose this language.
 
Sensicles are as fundamental as anything can be within the theory. Each possesses a singular meaning-profile: a particular kind of difference it can make within relationships with other Sensicles. It is not first a meaningless object to which meaning is subsequently attached. Its difference-making nature is what it is.
 
Something such as blue-ness, at the fundamental level, should therefore not be imagined as a tiny patch of conscious blue. It is the primitive difference-making character that, within sufficiently complex higher-order organisation, can contribute to what consciousness eventually experiences as blue.
 

Some readers might wonder why I do not simply refer to these Sensicles as qualia. Qualia refer to the raw felt qualities of sensations, emotions, thoughts, or anything else. Although Sensicles may appear equivalent to qualia, I avoid that term, as it is too entangled with subjective consciousness to serve as an objective, foundational element in an account of how things fundamentally come into being, including consciousness itself. Qualia are what we experience in consciousness after it has been assembled by Sensicles.
 
The question naturally arises: if a Sensicle possesses only its singular nature—so that something like blue-ness lacks even the property of spreadability—how is it possible for us to see it extended across a surface or mixed with another colour? The answer lies in the first Sensicle we will examine.
 
[  ]
 
The Set (or Set-ness) Sensicle is the sense of something-ness.

Imagine standing alone in a dark forest. You think you have heard a twig snap. You feel that there is something there, though you do not know what. That feeling of something-ness is as close as we can get to experiencing the Set Sensicle.
In such moments, your mind instinctively tries to fill that set with a further set that will define the cause of the noise. For us, as conscious agents, everything is a “something.” Indeed, there is not a single thing in this universe—whether physical or mental—that is not a “something,” and that s
omething-ness is made possible by the nature of the Set Sensicle.
 
The Set Sensicle contributes the primitive sense of something belonging together as a potential whole. It allows Sensicles to enter a bounded relational organisation without blending away their individual natures.
 
But placing elements within a Set does not, by itself, make the collection a genuine higher-order entity. That requires something more.
 
When Sensicles interact, the differences they make can constrain what happens next. Some combinations are fleeting, while mutually compatible constraints can make other patterns more persistent. If such a pattern becomes sufficiently integrated that it begins making a difference to the rest of reality as a whole, rather than merely through its constituents independently, the organised Set has become a new difference-making unit.
 
This distinction is important. The Set Sensicle provides the primitive grammar of belonging together; relational constraint and persistence determine whether that potential organisation becomes an enduring higher-order thing.
 
A straightforward way to visualise the distinction is to imagine a green clown. Its various elements can be gathered within an organised Set, but the Set is not simply metaphysical glue that turns arbitrary ingredients into a genuine entity. The resulting pattern acquires its identity through the relationships among those elements and the differences the organised whole can subsequently make.
The Set Sensicle therefore makes bounded organisation possible, while the relationships among the elements determine what that organisation becomes.
 
This also provides a more precise account of recursive emergence. Lower-level Sensicles can enter relationships that produce persistent, integrated patterns. When such a pattern becomes causally effective as a whole, it can itself function as a new building block within further Sets and relationships.
 
The products of the generative language can therefore become part of its vocabulary.
 
This process can repeat at progressively higher levels. It is analogous to atoms becoming components of molecules, molecules becoming components of cells, and cells becoming components of organisms—but the theory does not assume those transitions merely from the analogy. The task is to show how the underlying Sensicle dynamics actually generate them.
 
The Set Sensicle therefore does not single-handedly create pattern, structure or persistence. It contributes one of the primitive conditions that make relational organisation possible. The structure that emerges depends upon the wider network of differences, constraints and persistent relationships within the Set.
 

It is like having dozens of actors representing various characters in a stage production. These characters do not exist until the actors step onto the stage, at which point the characters come to life. The stage acts like a Set, bringing everything together as ‘a-thing’—a show.
 
◿
 
The next Sensicle we will examine is the Magnitude (or Magnitude-ness) Sensicle.
 
Taken in isolation, this Sensicle is again entirely incomprehensible to our conscious awareness. In such a solitary state, what exists is not magnitude as we ordinarily feel it, but only the potential for magnitude—a kind of undifferentiated sense intensity. This is a qualitative presence that has not yet been placed within any relational frame. It is neither “large” nor “small,” for there is no scale and no contrast. It simply is: a raw, non-relative intensity of presence. Don’t worry about not ‘getting’ it on an intuitive level. You can’t.
 
In its emergent form (when it’s ‘in’ a Set Sensicle with other elements and where our understanding kicks in), the Magnitude Sensicle contributes the sense of relation—the intuition of “more-ness” or “less-ness,” a pre-linguistic, pre-mathematical awareness of quantity or intensity within Set structures. The Magnitude Sensicle exerts a profound influence on reality and our conscious experience of it. While the Set Sensicle creates structure, Magnitude introduces variability and the potential for change. Flowmonics proposes that Magnitude is one of the Sensicles involved in the eventual emergence of structures such as space, time, movement and causation. Together with Position and other Sensicles, it may contribute to the relational organisation from which spacetime itself ultimately emerges. Exactly how that transition occurs remains an open part of the theory.

If the Set Sensicle is the creator, Magnitude is its power.
 
Another distinctive quality that Magnitude contributes to emergent phenomena is its additive nature. A hundred instantiated Magnitude-ness sets create a sense of “more-ness” in relation to, let us say, ten references. It is the Magnitude Sensicle that enables the Set Sensicle to form multiple references of a set [ [◿] [◿] [◿] ]. How did it all start? The simplest way to understand this is that the sense of more-than-nothing opens the possibility of more-than-that-more. So, a unit of Magnitude in a Set with no Magnitude gave us the sense of one more than zero, and that sense of more-ness gave us one more than one and so on. Remember, Sensicles make sense in the vocabulary of their nature—sense-ness. Our natural languages are not suited for it. They are the wrong language to use, and that’s why we’ve made no progress.

To make the notation of Magnitude more straightforward, we write it as [ ◿3 ], acknowledging that each Magnitude Sensicle reference is “wrapped” in its own Set and then brought together in a parent Set.
 
In summary, Magnitude is the sense of a primitive relation or felt distinction: this is greater than, smaller than, or equal to that. It makes comparison possible without requiring counting or measurement. Like all Sensicles, Magnitude must be instantiated to become “a thing” [◿]. Then, for it to have value in reality—and by extension to our minds—it must cohere with some other thing in that Set [ ◇◿ ]. In other words, the Magnitude of something. Next, it requires variability through its additive nature [ ◇◿3 ]. Finally, it requires a structure to make it relational [ [ ◇◿3 ] [ ◇◿6 ] ].
I have, of course, just introduced another Sensicle, so let me present it now.
 
◇

The Position (or Position-ness) Sensicle represents the sense of something being somewhere. Yet in its isolated state, it is, like all Sensicles, entirely unknowable. On its own, locality loses all definitional content. There is no “where,” because there is no elsewhere. It is presence without spatial relation: a pure hereness that has no contrast, no boundary, no direction, no extent. Space, in any meaningful form, does not yet exist. The solitary element does not occupy or define a real position—it is position-ness, or perhaps more precisely, presence without placement.
 
The only reason the Sensicles make any sense at all is that your mind always experiences them at higher levels of emergence. You cannot think of Magnitude-ness without thinking of the magnitude of something, nor of Position-ness without thinking of something somewhere, even if you do not know where. For example, you cannot envision this element as existing in a universe that contains only a single Position Sensicle, because your mind will inevitably imagine it within an entirely black space (spatial dimensions plus colour added). Try removing the space and the colour. Even if you manage that, you will still sense the Position Sensicle in a relational context to your own position.
 
What I am trying to do here is create an understanding of how the Sensicles cohere to create the emergent sense experience that we are so familiar with in our conscious awareness. So, let us imagine we bring a Position Sensicle together with a selection of Magnitude sets [◇◿100]. This creates the emergent sense of position-ness combined with 100 magnitude-ness—a Position of 100 Magnitudes. At this low level of emergence, it does not make much practical sense to the mind, which is primarily concerned with relational entities. If we then place it together with another set containing a different magnitude reference amount, an emergent sense we know as distance—in its most basic form—arises: one Position/Magnitude relative to another.
 
[ [◇◿1] [◇◿100] ]
 
Of course, in consciousness, we usually experience such Sets within higher levels of emergence, where we also know what the Position refers to—the Position of what?
 
[ [ [object1] [◇◿1] ] [ [object2] [◇◿100] ] ]
 
These structures quickly become increasingly complex. A sense of distance, for example, typically comes with at least two spatial dimensions, built-in orientations, and all of this unfolds across time. Still, these lower-level Sets are experienced as brief moments of the sense they represent, which quickly blend into the larger context of emergence.
 
The artist, in a sense, learns to isolate these more basic Sets and focus on them during the creative process. For example, they might isolate the Set of a curve’s tension, the weight of a shadow, or the distance between two forms—not merely as visual data, but as momentary intensities of presence and relation. It is like a dancer sensing the tension in a pause, rather than experiencing it as merely a mechanical duration between two steps. These can be shaped, emphasised, or distorted so that they resonate with the larger set of felt relations, thereby creating a unified quality that guides the creative process.
 
There are many other equally fascinating Sensicles—such as Spin-ness and Then-ness—alongside the more familiar colours and those that combine to give rise to our emotions and our experiences of sound, smell, touch, and taste.
 
By delving into the language of Sensicles—by coming to terms with the proposed grammar of reality itself—we can begin investigating questions such as why we experience three spatial dimensions, how the passage of time emerges into experience, what the self truly is, the nature of free will, and much more besides.
 
Why? Because Flowmonics proposes that these phenomena ultimately emerge from organisations of Sensicles. Understanding their syntax, relationships and generative grammar may therefore allow us to work backwards from the structures we experience towards the deeper processes from which they arise.

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