As the moon grows full in Pisces, a generous imp with a wooden leg guides us, sometimes pushing us, through a fog. As the mist kisses our faces, we hear a rumble of something approaching in the distance: a weeping tide nears, appearing as an oncoming dark wave—a mirror, actually, of the flexion of our beings opening the cavern of starseeded tears that pour from our eyes.
These tears pass through our receptacles of truth and ensure we’re not hoodwinking ourselves.
If not for this catharsis sprinkled with starry sparkles emanating from our tearducts, there would be no clarity. But with their presence an unusual genuine sense of authenticity emerges from within.
Our newfound clarity guides us to a black river with stones and shields, and the crystallized self-knowledge we’ve achieved meets the obstacle of solid demands—“tell me where you’ve been, tell me what you really know, justify yourself!” the callous patriarch yells. Time to go into the rivers of memory taking us back to those times catching flu from sorting through a tyrant’s hundred-year old moldy documents in a basement.
The purgation that has moistened our souls tells us there’s no need to fret that autocratic posturing disguised as obstacles that try to harden us into meeting dogmatic obligation. Instead, little by little, with patience and the ability to taste the power within the salt of our tears, those obstacles dissolve before our eyes, as do the perceived splits between our own approaches to how we know what we know.