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A Tarot life

Each sea­son which is the hours brings its share of dis­cov­er­ies. I too often for­get the pas­sage of time. I stop think­ing I’m mov­ing. I have suc­ceed­ed, as an emper­or, in estab­lish­ing my influ­ence through past actions. I pos­sess the shy strength of a stub­born fighter.

There are also longer sea­sons, which include hours and weeks, which also swal­low years. Then, with fatigue, like waters hit­ting the cliff, I wake up again in the lunar night of my soul.

As a teenag­er, I used to write riv­er let­ters to a friend. As a young adult, I became inter­est­ed in mag­ic and poet­ry. Then there was the great sea­son of expe­ri­ences that it would be too self­ish to tell here. At most, I can think that I bathed in it, lost, intox­i­cat­ed, then redis­cov­ered it.

Now, the wheel seems to be turn­ing a lit­tle bit more. The moon reminds me of the order of emo­tions that always lie dor­mant in me, faith­ful, insis­tent like a crab. I can­not move away from sym­bols, light, and shad­ows. I am made to live in amaze­ment, to sub­mit to the hap­pi­ness of the seasons.

I can only become a mas­ter of my des­tiny by sub­mit­ting to it. This is a great para­dox, the great illusion ?

Can we trust the poets ?

Tags:tarot

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