My name is Logan Race. I build tools and frameworks that liberate the mind, body and spirit from fragmentation. I help make the return to self achievable, the gap in knowledge, knowable and the space between feeling and being closer. I am certified in chaos, welcome to my world.
Reach me at [email protected]
Unshrinking
Logan the LiberatorCopyrightLogan The Liberator
Copyright © 2025 by Logan A. Race
All rights reserved.
No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.
A Note on the Text
This book is a record of a soul remembering itself. It was channeled, fought for, and transcribed faster than my hands could sometimes keep up.
You will find typos. You will find repetitions that feel like incantations. You will find language that shifts between the academic, the poetic, and the profane.
This is not carelessness. This is testimony.
The grammar is not always perfect because the journey was not linear. The words are not always polished because the truth is not polite. The names have been changed not to hide, but to honor the essence of the people and protect the sanctity of our shared story, while I speak the deepest truth of mine.
This is not a story about what happened. It is the artifact of what happened to me. It is the unshrinking, made text.
Read it not for perfection. Read it for its pulse.
Find me at : LoganLiberates.com
— LogantheLiberatorDedicationFor Lola Race North – my daughter, my mirror, my magic. You gave me my first reason to live louder, love deeper, and to never shrink again. Everything I unlearned, everything I reclaimed, everything I unearthed, I did it so you wouldn't have to. You are everything that is, everything that was, and everything that will ever be. In every universe, timeline, and realm I choose you, first and forever. You were born Damn Near Perfect. This is yours too.
To all the women in my bloodline, who were before me, who had to endure the separation from mother to daughter, who have generational father wounds, generations of being unseen and called crazy. I write for you! Thank you for my gift of crazy. I am honored to be a part of your legacy, take this as my offering and recognition of all you mother warrior lovers.
To Black Women, my protectors, my sisters. I am yours, and you are mine, I love y'all real deep. Real Blue. Please accept this as my communion.EpigraphSheep no run wit lion
Snake no swing wit monkeys
I can't talk for too long
Got too much gold to try on
..please dont jealous me
-Tekno, Lord Afrixana, Mr. Eazi & Yemi AladeTable of ContentsDedication
Epigraph
Prologue
Introduction
Part I: Alphabet / Symbols: Childhood as the First Learning Block to Freedom as Language
The Waters: Where the Current Began
Childhood: A Current Forming
Self-Accepted
Nat Turner Play
Curated Knowledge
Curated Blackness
Damn Near: Finding the Shape of Legacy
Loose Like Change
A Lesson in Quiet Power
Before the Shrinking
The Classroom Warning
John Lewis, Good Trouble
A New Kind of Love Story
Melting Pot
A Call From Inside the House
Shrinking’s Final Form
Glacier
Part II: Vocabulary / Lexicon: The Learned Building Blocks of Language Gain Context
The Siren: The Language of Fragmentation
Current Slows, Compacting Into Weight
In Between
Love as Distance
Love as a Vision
Love as an Unknown
New Body
Love as Lupus
Falling in Love
Love as Grief
Racing North
A Name, Not a Directive
Satus Quo
5 AR
August
Iceberg
Part III: Grammar / Syntax: Application, Expanding Language as Communication and Inheritance
The Storm of Whiteness: The System’s Violent Order
God of War
Theory - Literature Review
Black Ice
Conceptualize
Operationalize
Dangerous Curves Ahead
Data Collection
Experiment and Results
Implications and Limitations
Part IV: Semantics / Meaning: Subversion of Language, Spiritual Texts, and Higher Dialects
The Mounds: Navigating the Wreckage
Black Snow
Born Into Shade
The Complex House of Complexion
Half as Cold
The Politics of Colored Colleges and Their Complexity With Complexions
Uniformed Complexions Amongst the Complex
My Complexion is Complex
Snow Melt
Part V: Holy Texts & Case Study: Scripture. Liberation in Practice, Language as Framework for Freedom
New Life: The Delta—Where Waters Settle and Mix
My Mirror, Your Reflection
Reality Check
The Jump
Lola
The Swim
Way of the Water
Gucci Logan
Epilogue
Appendix: The Framework
Glossary & Authority
The Core Axiom: The Sovereign Self
The Ten Core TheoriesPrologueIn the beginning, there was only water.
Deep. Silent. Complete.
A hum so profound it was not sound
it was a feeling being felt
that never needed to be found.The kind of hum that slides up your spine
and intertwines
between the folds and the synapses
of one’s pretty pink mind.In the beginning there was only the dark
not the absence of light,
but the origin from which it fought.A fullness.
A wholeness.
A womb too vast for edges.
We were not in the universe;
we were everything,
all at once.We were the universe
motion without friction,
knowing without words.
Freedom was not a concept;
it was the nature of existence.I was a solo body of water,
yet still part of the infinite ocean of vast.
Our waters moved as one body.
No storm.
No chop.
No violent clash.There was no need for growing,
no need for reaching—
for what is there to reach for
when you are your very own creation?You can be a single wave
and the entire sea all at once.
That’s the truth whiteness prays
you never remember
how the darkness was once
the blazing sun.When something needed to be known,
it was known:
a shift in the current,
a change in pressure.
Word talk, language was primitive,
an early sign of regression.We were the sigh of a summer breeze,
a communal knowing.
Not a demand,
nor a silent scream.Then that stillness fractured
not with a bang,
but in a spread like cancer,
a spiritual rot from within.Like it didn’t understand
how there were no beginnings
just as there were no ends.Something inside us grew empty
a hollow wanting,
the kind that doesn’t whisper,
the kind that holds weight.
Pressure that bends the bow,
pressure that breaks.The emptiness decided
it wanted to be special
to be seen apart
from the rest of itself.
It wasn’t enough
to be part of the infinite vast.
As that cancer grew it thought,
How can we last?From that rot grew rough waters
disharmonious ones.
The ones that brought the brightness,
the ones that brought a yellow sun.And so the waters turned.
Soft waves broke into chop.
The chop cracked into thunder.
And from the thunder and the chop
came the first siren
s
not creatures,
but voices
from down under.
The kind that leave you spellbound to your core,
a hollow, empty sound
the echo of water
mistaking itself for something more.The sirens called out to the other waters,
not with humility but demand:
See me.
Name me.
Validate me.
And many did
because the sound was seductive.
The echo of yourself always is.
If you’re not listening close,
blessings start to sound like sin.
And that’s how the split happened
not from an outsider,
but from within.Bodies of water swept in by the sirens,
hypnotized by harmonious thunder,
unable to flow back.
Those solos got stuck under.
They were fragmented,
cut off from the oceans of vast,
their fragments swirling
with the disharmonious waters
their union creating something new,
akin to water,
not like it,
but of it.
The sirens called it land.But it was Whiteness.
It was brightness
not a people,
but a parasite.
And a plan.Before the fracture spread too far,
the sirens started to sing once more,
trying to trick the other waters,
telling them they could be more :Beware the darkness,
they sang,
undefinedit hides monsters.
undefinedForget the dark tide and its name
undefinedor it will soon come after you.
undefinedThe vast is great yet all the same.
undefinedCome to Whiteness
undefinedwe’ll give you a name.
undefinedThese new lands couldn’t speak
the water’s language of being,
of freedom,
of surrender,
so they invented a language
of ownership
and called it English.
A language of grants and deeds,
of borders and blood quotas.Whiteness is deafening
loud,
sharp,
incapable of silence.A light born from rot,
a beauty that guides ships to the rocks
alluring,
relentless,
a deceivingly safe reprieve,
a riptide disguised
as a welcome-home wave.You start to wonder what this new land offers,
forgetting you are the offering.
Forgetting you made the world.
Forgetting the water was here first,
and there could never be an after.Solo waters get pulled in
they always do.
Because Whiteness doesn’t whisper.
It broadcasts.It’s the siren's song of the spiritually bankrupt
not the language of cavemen
but of corporate boardrooms
and imperial decrees.The sound of things
no longer alive
fragments of what
we once were,
turned into
the incompetent,
the fearful,
the ones who think they need a team.White is the vacancy of color
the desperate performance of brilliance,
the arithmetic of the void:
zero times zero always equals zero.
One times anything
just encloses itself.Whiteness mirrored itself,
called it the gospel,
then invented the sin,
demanded tithes and penance,
then said,
we’ll let you keep your soul
but we getting your submission.Whiteness sounds so familiar,
like a hymn you learned before you could think.
That’s because Whiteness is the fragments of ourselves
whenever we decide to shrink.The fragments call to you.
They feel like yours
because they are pieces of you
stolen and re-branded.And this is where the water turns damning,
because Whiteness is a system
that makes you complicit
in not only the flood
but also your own drowning.
Drawn in.
Swept in.
No warning.
No blink.
Just a spiritual storm
a cultural surge
and lands that prohibit you to speak.The lands look like cousins
not water,
but thieves wearing the skin of kin.
The mighty oceans once whole
now fragmented,
broken,
holding up these parasitic mounds of illusion.But without our water
they are nothing
barren,
brittle,
dust
a ball of confusion.It’s only when water touches them
that the mirage of life begins—
a trick,
a seduction,
a civilization
built on the grave of remembering.The mounds, the sirens, the winds
they all speak Whiteness.
One language.
One delusion.
A song meant to keep water from reclaiming itself.But the unshrinking happens
when the current tears at your soul—
when grief screams,
when rage burns through the lie,
when the pressure says
this negotiated existence
is a death sentence.That’s when the axis shatters
not up,
not out— in.
Back.
Back to flow.
Back to hum.
Back to water.
Not war.
Not ladder.
Return.But listen
the return is not peaceful.Whiteness is a land and a language
like England and English
a mimicry of light,
but at its core, a void.
And only hollow things
and fragments
are born from voids.A land built on mimicry
can never create anything real
only new masks,
new copies,
new lies dressed as suns,
new words disguised as feels.Whiteness convinced itself
light was needed to see,
when the truth is:
we are of the darkness,
one with it,
born of it
never needing light to be.This performance of light,
this parody of life,
didn’t cast the monsters out—
it called to them,
invited them in,
and said, Hey, I’m white
want to live in my world and play pretend?That fake bright light
cracked the surface
and let the deep breathe again.It stirred the darkness inside,
reminding them
they were the monsters withinthe ones the sirens warned of,
the ones born from darkness,
the ones who bottle the light
and bring the dark sun
the ones who bring sounds so profound
Whiteness built myths and hymns about.The darkness
the light built its demons around .The shadow it swore to keep chained
beneath its performance of illumination.I am the hunger it named evil,
the force behind Whiteness’ condemnation.
I am the tide it tried to dam.
I am not its fear,
but its consequence.And now that I have remembered,
the warning has become the prophecy.
The real monsters of the dark have risen
not to hide, but to feast on Whiteness
and its mimicry.
The darkness will be the light
as it was
and always will be.IntroductionThis is a story about freedoms and rights, so the only thing that made sense was to let Freedom write.
The word freedom appears all over patriotic language— songs, speeches, slogans— but it’s conspicuously absent from the documents they call sacred.
The United States Declaration of Independence talks about liberty and happiness, but not freedom. The United States Constitution doesn’t say it at all— not until the amendments. Even the Emancipation Proclamation never named it for what it was.
This was never an oversight. It was the design.
Theirs is a freedom of property lines— of deeds and titles that first had to be stolen to be owned. A freedom measured in acreage and stock portfolios. A commodity that thrives on the very confinement it claims to despise.
Their founders didn’t just omit the word; they built the entire lexicon of their liberty on the backs of the unfree. Their liberty was secured by our bondage. Their pursuit of happiness was funded by our misery.
They sing anthems about “the land of the free” while running the world’s largest carceral state— a paradox they have no interest in solving.
Meanwhile, we’ve carried real freedom in our bones since they stole one group of us to invent an origin for the rest.
Real freedom doesn’t need fireworks or pledges of allegiance. It’s a quiet, unshakable knowing— a first language spoken in the soul long before any nation tried to claim its copyright.
They perform freedom. We inherited it.
The proof is in the parchment itself.
United States Declaration of Independence (1776): The word freedom never appears. It uses liberty as an ideal and free to describe states breaking from a king, but avoids defining freedom as a universal human condition.
United States Constitution (1787): The word is completely absent. Instead, the document embeds the legal architecture of slavery— the Three-Fifths Compromise and the Fugitive Slave Clause— making it an explicit contradiction to any notion of universal freedom.
Bill of Rights (1791): Here, freedom appears for the first time, but only as a narrow restriction on government power— “Congress shall make no law…”— not as a grant of human dignity. It names privileges for some while upholding the bondage of others.
Emancipation Proclamation (1863): Again, freedom is avoided. The text is a dry military order declaring people “thenceforward, and forever free,” using legal status while sidestepping the power of the word itself.
This deliberate omission— this carefully curated vocabulary— was the masterstroke of their system. It did four things:
Established freedom not as a universal right but as a conditional privilege—granted to some, denied to others.
Made the pursuit of freedom a legalistic, amendment-based grind, forcing generations to fight within a system never built to include them.
Turned freedom into something to win in a courtroom rather than something one is born with.
Forced the oppressed to define freedom for themselves— not as a clause in a document, but as an unbreakable truth carried in the soul, a first language they could never forget.
So when does freedom actually mean free— and more importantly, to whom does it apply?
The journey through this book moves in layers, not straight lines. Think of it like a spiral staircase: each step rises but circles back to familiar ground with a different view.
I move through time— not just with dates, but emotionally, intellectually, spiritually, geographically. I move in language, in memory, in soul.
What starts as reflection becomes revelation. What begins in survival ends in liberation.
You’ll notice shifts— in tone, in voice, in clarity. That’s intentional. This isn’t just a story— it’s a return. A peeling back. A walking forward, circling inward.
Each section deepens the last— n
The fundamental doctrine and belief that self knowledge is prioritized above all other sources of knowledge regarding self, that spirit is only separate from body in the way in which we currently understand,
and that the process of wholeness for mankind is the way out of our government dependent state.Below is a brief introduction to Self Sovereign Studies, which emerged during my writing of Unshrinking: Freedom as My First Language.
Self Sovereign Studies (SSS) grew from Unshrinking, like moss grows on a tree. My journey had no direction, until this moss pointed the way.
My cosmology of relation tells the original story of relating, creating, sacrifice, love, pleasure, boundaries, surrender and unmitigated unlimited potential (chaos).The prologue to Dark Black Wet,
my second liberation novel. If SSS grew from Unshrinking like a moss on a tree, then Dark Black Wet are the circumstances that allowed the moss to grow, to show direction pointing towards the liberation of our true north.
My second book of liberation. The follow up to Unshrinking. Coming soon.
The cosmology of fragmentation, is the original story of how we lost our wholeness, why we give it up, and the journey of finding it again.Also, the prologue to Unshrinking,
the proverbial relating of the moss and the tree and all its implications.
My self journey, to wholeness, the steps I took and the process along the way. The work that started it all, the Tree itself, made as legacy embodied for my seeds.The core theory founds the foundational laws of Self Sovereign Studies. There is no Self Sovereign Studies without Unshrinking, just as there is no Dark Black Wet without Self Sovereign Studies.This is a system, universe and world. Everything is Everything.
Here are some tools, I use myself to help me remain whole. Please Enjoy.
One's relation to chaos and the state of being, fragmented versus whole, determines one's quality and quantity of one's material rewards.
I use this nine card spread as a daily horoscope tool and natal horoscope. Although the uses are unlimited. Columns are alignment to the vertical self, and rows represent coherence to horizontal environment.When cards are placed in this 9 card spread, one can easily see their alignment and coherence, although I use it for any question I so chose. Enjoy.
If any part of this has touched you, or you would to reach out, join my email list or email me directly at [email protected]
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