“Scorpios concern themselves with beginnings and endings, and are unafraid of either; they also travel in a world that is black and white and has little use for gray…” says astrology.com
If this is anything to go by then I guess I would be a sell-out Scorpio. I swim in the grey, sometimes. As a matter of fact I am currently living ‘in grey’. I am all about the ‘in-betweens’, ‘seeing what happens’, ‘the lingering and limbos’ etc. However the one thing that anyone talking about Scorpios gets right with me is the emphasis on the complexities of being one. So I will own that one. I am complicated and everything I touch has to be complicated. Straight-forward makes no sense to me; it is too mediocre at best and at worst extremely suspicious. In most cases however I wish this wasn’t so. I wish I had more appreciation for simpler things and ways because I fantasize about all things simple and sensible. I fantasize about order and neatness but I dole out chaos and confusion in good measure. I love it when things are complicated because that way I can anticipate and envision myself as a key part in a good story.
However, much as I love the drama of it, nothing, not one event, person or item prepares me for heartbreaks that eventually come. And these are sure to come no matter what. It seems that the older I get the lesser I am equipped to deal with the severity of a heartbreak especially one that is intentionally caused. I mean, I hit rock bottom, I crash and shatter into many sharp fragments of mini-me’s.
The worst part is the wreckage. Trying to comprehend what happened. Trying to piece these parts of me together when they’re so dangerously severed they’d cut into those who lend a hand in that moment. An attempt at any kind of reformation or reinstating the former composition of who I was is impossible. For example, how do I match the memories of laughter and sweet love-making, to the present unbelievable pain in my chest? How do I match the smell of his skin that still covers my pillows, to the sight of the hideous text messages and pictures on his phone? How do I align what he promised me, to what he said to another – why are they similar? What am I supposed to do with that? And so forth.
But what makes a good story really? Because if all the pieces were to fit like they Should, if all the angles were to makes sense and revert into the same exact structure that was disrupted, then that is not a story. It is a guide. A manual on how to get over heartbreak, or how to move on, or other pathetic hooks splayed on headlines to make us buy or click.
A good story writes itself. Even the writer is often surprised at the development of characters and eventual change of course. They don’t know, the characters don’t know, no one knows. That is what makes it good, magnificent and worthy. In this regard, I guess the earlier quote from astrology.com is not too far off because I am concerned with beginnings and endings.
The site also states that Scorpios are all about intensity and contradictions. I own that too, it is so spot on. The idea that I might die of heartbreak, eventually, is not too far-fetched for me. Yet I want my story to keep writing itself even at my own expense. I also realize mine is not a unique story, perhaps not even a unique version, it is simply my account told in my own words. And should it outlive me so that those who read it will be comforted by the knowledge that they are not alone.
They will rest assured that nothing stands still; even mountains shudder and time makes the staunchest of stumps wear out. And wavering is okay, because it is movement. It might not be movement forward or back, or in any other directions that are sensible to us. It could just be slight sway to shake off the chaff and allow you to soak in the sun a little more. It could be a shuffle that moves you right in time to catch the scents of life and laughter that the wind carries with it. It could also be a shiver that alerts you when greater danger is looming and so you seek cover and wait for the worst to be over.
As nomadmanifesto writes, “…sisters- you were not the first. not the first to love the wrong men, not the first to jump in before you learned how to swim, not the first to revel in the metal of your own blood“.
I love a good story, and it only makes sense that I live as one.
© Sally Kahiu 2015