I don’t believe in messages delivered by astrology. I think my personality’s a matter of biology. Images in crystal balls I’m sure are just projections. I’m not about to spend my dough on engineered reflections.
But still I pluck at daisies. Does he love or does he not? And I check out daily the Tarot cards I bought. Every scattered grain of salt I throw over my shoulder. and I won’t step on sidewalk cracks until I’m somewhat bolder.
I’m flexible, I guess you’d say, dealing with superstition. I want the ones I follow to match my disposition. If I’m the one in charge of the ones that I am choosing, I tend to have control of what I’m gaining or I’m losing.
I’m fueled by fire yet pulled by the moon. Everything used up too soon, oh too soon. I’m a pig by my nature. I want it all. I love my home, yet hear the world’s call. Adventure and travel I had in full measure, but now it’s my home that affords me my pleasure. Nesting, then flying patterns my past. Change chasing change in the past was a blast. But now I prefer for the nesting to last. As a crab in my shell, my future is cast.
Born a fire pig according to the Chinese calendar, western astrology brands me as a water sign—moonchild—crab. In the last quarter of my life, I would say that water has quenched fire, but of course all of these elements reside within us always. I just now find more sedate ways to express them.