Rob Brezsney’s Freewill astrology for Pisces this week says:
The uterus of a pregnant sand tiger shark is not exactly a peaceful sanctuary. Her eggs hatch in there well before she gives birth. Soon the multiple embryos begin a fight to the death. By the time the mother goes into labor, there’s just one pup remaining. I suspect there’s now a similar kind of survival-of-the-fittest struggle going on within the metaphorical womb of your imagination, Pisces. Several pretty good brainchildren are tussling for supremacy. Which one will defeat and eat the others and grow into maturity? I bet we’ll find out soon.
The body of the fallen lay Lover crumpled on the ground, a seemingly lifeless corpse, sprawled out. She was beautiful, full of dreams, hopes, and ambitions of great Love and Happiness. She is a tragic figure, with her wavy locks, spread out encircling her form like a rusted golden halo. She is an angel who has lost her wings. The Others sit around the space- in mourning? Not really- mostly wondering which one is next. They didn’t execute the Lover, she was broken down by something else. But regardless, another one bites the dust, pardon the cruel irony of the expression. She had united them- made them all believe they could each have moments, that they could all be one. Like something trite as the Spice Girls. That they could be a unity, an Actor-Writer-Singer-Pragmatist-Lover, a quintet of power. But now that she had fallen, they sat-paced-hid-stood waiting for the next one to make the move. Pragmatist stood tall by the body, she knew she would win in the end. Making money. Making money. She repeated with a firm belief that her logic would seep through, and she would stay standing while all the creative fools killed each other. They’d have to bury the body- the Lover couldn’t possibly be awaken anytime soon. Logically speaking it was improbable. It’s a fact. Actor sat- posed- postulated, wondering what words could be used to express the Pain and Joy. Love alters not- bears it out to edge of dooooooom. Wise words- Doooooom! She let the words roll around her mouth, felt the vibrations the ‘O’ sound created in her mouth. Mouth. Mouth. The ‘th’ was intoxicating. Taking it apart like Stanislavsky’s turkey- or was it a chicken? Actor would take them all apart with the words of others flowing like super powers through herself, through her body, her instrument. What did the Actor know about words- other then speaking them with manufactured meaning? The Writer, paced around the space, avoiding the elephant in the room. Writer knew you could agonize other a sentence, or word, or paragraph- but mostly you have to be bold, and keep it writing. Just keep writing. Be bold or die. One was already dead. 4 more to go. How would a great envision them? What would Austen write? Would they all be drinking tea with empire waists? Would the Lover still lie at their feet? What about the body? Would it be realistic, naturalistic- or a horse of a different color? What-why-who-where-how-mostly why? Ever so softly in the corner the Singer bid her time. She hummed a tune. She hated the Lover. While she reigned for the past two years, Singer was in the dark, locked in a small cage only to be poked and prodded and never good enough. Only once- when she sang a love song. Blah! So she ignored the gravity of death and smiled. A lifeless form- inspiration for a melody. Broken hearts make the best songs. She smiled to herself. She would soon have the power to pierce the ears of all around her until their brains bled out of their noses. What rhymes with noses?
The Lover lay there as they figured this new situation out. She was half alive but felt mostly dead. Something she once heard in a love song- once upon a something. Lover hoped she would breath once more, she knew she would, the way you know about the sun rising and moon becoming full. Let them kill each other, and let them eat each other’s hearts, but in the end they are all the same. Lover let herself get lost for a while. Dancing on clouds and shooting stars as most lovers do.
