Zarathustra quoted, with Nietzsche's pen in hand, that 'as yet death is not a festival' thus 'not yet have people learned to inaugurate the finest festivals‘.
P R E L U D E
–With all due respect, I am heading out.
O U T R O
Shattered, the chrysalis serves no purpose aymore.
Leave and
bloom, bloom, bloom
like a rose,
in a riverbed.
november 5h, 2025 - Full moon in Taurus
If a clear and sharp image appears in my mind when connecting the Taurus–Scorpio axis, it is those cracks between pavement and road, where Mother Nature manages to squeeze through with strength and four leafy stems which embellish the gray with hope
green.
celestial disposition
this full moon is something like the interface between Mars leaving the Scorpio sign
and the entry of Venus, as a handover.
72h after, Uranus will be back to the land ruled by the Goddess; the taurian.
and our already beloved Pluto, the Scorpio ruler, remains in Aquarius; of course.
I N T R O
A few days ago, I received a newsletter I hadn't subscribed to (21st-century things that happen normally and repeatedly). I decided to give it my attention out of pure curiosity and, honestly, the text was nothing to write home about, but I found an interesting reminder: Most people say they still feel drained, even when they get the recommended amount of sleep.
Does anyone else find it strange how strangely the majority frames that piece of information, even nowadays? It is stated as if it were something that shouldn't occur: how weird... I'm more tired than usual... why is that? Quite a mystery, indeed.
Metamorphosis was never a light, smooth, simple, painless process. Put yourself in the shoes of a werewolf. Put yourself in those of a caterpillar.
For two weeks, the larva feeds, eats and eats until it reaches a size 2,000 times greater so they say, those from NG; and that very thing reminds me of us: just like that, without stopping, we swallow information until we burst. Internet, internet, internet… (and Spanish siesta!) I wonder what's going on with our brain; what with our body, considering we had never devoured like absolute bastards before. Not at this speed. Not with such a vast array of choices. Nor so many faces, voices, facial and body expressions, from so many diverse cultures and with so many divergent points of view. And I'm not talking about before, some years ago; I'm talking about before, the entire history of the human being.
Yet we go on with our daily lives behind screens; it’s not as if we’ve replaced one for the other, or at least, not the majority of us; influencers aside. Perhaps that is what generates that sense of strangeness regarding the fact that most people say they still feel drained, even when they get the recommended amount of sleep; some kind of dissociation, but really? Does it really surprise you?!
A historic shift in humankind, yet we pretend to keep acting as if nothing had changed; as if everything were the same as usual: pastures and chickens and forests and squirrels and roses in a riverbed, period. The entire human race got inside a chrysalis, and I don't think emerging from it is going to be a quick four-day butterflything. We are in the midst of a global metamorphosis: the process is long and intense; heavy; burdensome; painful... and it implies mourning for yesterday: a massive lost for the self.
We need some rest.
Digest the info.
Process the change.
The body knows perfectly well that we are transmuting; yet it seems our mind has barely become aware of it. Granted, it's not as if there has been any collective preparation by our leaders either: they want to make our ankles tremble over meteorites that will never fall, but they fail to teach us how to navigate realities such as the current historic, worldwide transformation.
When novelty looms, confusion comes with it: the uncertainty of tomorrow needs to reorder yesterday on a daily basis, in pursuit of knowing what will remain useful and, thus, wisely purging what is no longer. We will wander pulling petals off daisies until we can see clearly, because not all that glitters is goldand knowing how to tell the difference is the Scorpio's task, but carrying a full backpack as we advance is ex-haus-ting. Oh, the just in case! The selection must be intelligent; coherent with both past and future; executed step by step, right here in the present.
Arduous collective work, despite having to be sculpted at an individual level, don't you think? The entire society enclosed within a webbed cocoon, yet people find strangeness and mystery in the symptoms unleashed by it.
We ought to be ritualizing the experience, for a change of this scale warrants sacred care, yet here we stand: absurdly putting up with the thousand petty wars of our plutocraticrulers, while subjecting us to various new normalities, and at the same time distributing and viralizing 21st-century tropes, like that of siciil midii iri tixic wih wih wih (sorry 'cause the thing is I adore typing like crying a river; translation: social media are toxicwah wah wah) and that's why we're all sick in the head.
Are we?,
us?
I don't know if social media is, by definition, toxic, but what is clear to me that is toxic is a prejudice thrown around a la babalà (sorry, again, 'cause the thing is I also adore that catalan utterance; translation: recklessly) by only anchoring themselves to short-term results and without carefully analyzing every factor involved in a change as sudden, intense, and impactful as the one we are experiencing.
Be that as it may, we are a multitude addressing the collective tragedy at an individual level; billions of sentient and thinking beings who remain sponges, even at sixty-seven. Fifty. Forty-one. Seventy-two.
Everyday hungover.
Everyday sore.
But it's ok: the body will end up blending in; we'll get out of that cocoon mood and squeeze through the pavement in order to
sorry, over and over again, 'cause I'm scorpionically f*ckin’ obsessed with this woman and the match in between the vibe of the season and the live is spectaculARGH
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