Every time I swear Iβm finally walking clean, like my shoes just learned a new language, something grabs my ankle from the shadows and reminds me how familiar the dirt feels. I take one honest step, and the old noise starts whistling my name again. Itβs not loud, just patient. The devil doesnβt tackle, he tugs. He waits for the moment Iβm proud of progress and then tries to teach me gravity all over. But Iβm learning something too: falling back doesnβt erase the step I already took. Who else knows this fight, the one between the man youβre becoming and the mud that remembers your shape? Tell me your story, donβt leave me talking to the wind alone