Peregrine Mercury & Moon, no lullabies.

Moon applies just now to square my Pluto which itself is currently opposing Uranus, no surprise then that I am grist for the emotional mill and have been all of today. I am in a quandary about everything although I hope some good comes out of it. I will not be posting here for a little while; I get plenty of visitors but not much guidance, it feels like shouting from the bottom of a well, I hope for some friendly voice but usually I hear only the echo of my refrain. I will leave it at this then, by way of explanation.

It is difficult to be driven. This is the rift, the fundamental state of being out of step, but knowing that the consensus which would have you in thrall to its consonant rhythm is a fallacy only serves to force your own path, against all the good sense of society. Where will you find yourself? Who can say, except that even if it leads you into black despair, there is no other choice, it is required by the soul. This is the price of owning your soul of course; very few appreciate this, but every gift has its price and just as no scryer would exchange his gift for mundane success, nor should you, seeker, trade in your precious treasures for the glittery baubles of society’s good opinions. With time and enough hard-faced criticism from those who supposedly love you, then you will be suitably armoured against opinion to become yourself. It is a form of self-flagellation that hammers you into the shape you were born to assume; the alternative is to drift like a senseless bag of opinions and brittle judgements until you snap and collapse into a state of lifeless non-entity, for what other choice is there, to be yourself or to be nobody, to be a reflection of everyone else’s shallow visions of best-practise. I have spent half a life almost dying under the savagery of the onslaught, from my dearest detractors, from black-eyed strangers, from random figures of so-called authority and good-standing. Some have meant well, but that way, after all, is paved thus. There is no greater flame for searing the eyes blind than zealous logic. In these times, these obvious times, we exalt the Gods of reason until we are left snapping on the banks of the river of wisdom; except crocodiles are at least able to swim.

And of course we cannot escape the constructs of the hive; the infinite hexagons of material logic that decry our longing for individuation, and like bees, the chemical dance marks us out so that we threaten the consensus, the hive mind cannot tolerate such heresy and we will be swarmed and annihilated if we do not learn very soon to escape into some dark hole in the wall, to become alone, to become ourselves, and then, when we have found that a form of separate subsistence is possible, we might rediscover just the glimmer of faith, like a far-off beacon in the gathering dusk and the beauty and majesty of the solitary world, peopled no longer by ravaging demons, but by frightened, confused children, is revealed, perfect, replete with a gentle optimism that is nutritive beyond the memory of lost mothers and serene moon-rise.

Everywhere children, their faces smiling in sun-bonnets; but they cannot smile of course while we are wretched, while we are fearful and bereft, while we wail and clutch at the demons all about. This world is but a veneer over the mask of an imposter and the grey curtain is gossamer-thin. Reality awaits. The perfect curve of the ecliptic beckons and we are delivered to the totality of our understanding; the timeless key, the glyph of evolution.

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