I sit in my car at an intersection of America. Chris Robinson and a soulful sound of background singers belt out about how their souls are singing:
Got my soul singing … soul singing … sing sing along … soul singing …
Across the way a man flails his arms like an orchestra conductor. His lips emote a message that I cannot hear, but I feel him.
Got my soul singing … soul singing …
His arms strike the sky. His face strikes me alive.
…soul is singing … sing sing along, sing along …
I hit the gas pedal and cross through the intersection. He steps one foot in front of the other, arms still wildly about and his song singing out from his soul.
Mental illness has a soul, and is alive on our streets. I smile.
Yet, I am unhappy, confused. I think of the Roots.
It don’t feel right, feel right…I don’t feel it no more. I don’t know if I’ll feel the same.
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