As of writing this, my Saturn return has just ended. Like literally, hours ago. All my writing, postulating and making sense of things during my most pivotal phase of my life to date has culminated to this moment: starting this essay in bed at 10pm on a Friday night in my linen gingham mumu with three pimple patches on my face, and a Sleepytime tea on my side table. In a way, this is exactly how this penultimate moment should be. A great big sigh of relief.
To clarify, I am not totally ruled by divine providence. I only dabble in it to make sense of current phenomenons to help me through moments of deprivation and rigidity. The composure I seem to have amidst the chaos that comes and goes in my life is thanks to that persistent ability of mine to imagine something better; imagine it as though it were more tangible than any unfavorable reality I’m experiencing; imagine it as though there are greater forces, as there always is, at play that shape my reality. I think there’s a term for this… maladaptive daydreaming?
I am unilaterally offended by the concept of being upset because I don’t think I deserve to feel so. And when I am feeling upset, I’ll do anything to make something of that feeling, even if it means romanticizing it by way of amplifying it temporarily. I’ll write my heart out, listen to pertinent songs that drive home my feelings even further, and text my friends my thoughts on my situation so as to sit in it longer. It feels necessary and indulgent to build a world much larger than the one I’m currently living in because the involuntary nature of life is always front and center. I like being indulgent in everything that I do and I think it has more to do with my obsession with beauty than anything else. There’s even beauty in heartbreak and in the offensiveness of reality, I’ll tell people.
I can’t stop listening to this song called The Spinning Wheel by an artist I’ve never heard of before but once again so grateful to my Spotify algorithm for introducing me to. There’s a lyric that stands out to me:
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