Sixty-five revolutions
Sixty-five times around the Sun. So few revolutions, yet mine will fade in the memory of all those who will survive me and whose trace will also disappear, along with my last steps from this path called Life, Existence, Universe or God.
My robotically intelligent weighing machine told me this morning that I had the body of a sixty-six-year-old. So, reality doesn't contradict my brain. As for my unconscious, it simmers my dreams, stirs my elucidations and pulls the strings of my actions.
I'm still looking for my light, my star. I asked Midjourney to make me some stained-glass suns, then added precious stones and basalt. I'd already asked for a few Egon Schiele-style suns. The computer was inventive, and it was hard for me to choose. I never tire of this inordinately plagiarizing imagination. It allows me to build my sets. I used to walk around photographing the world, but now I line my eyes with counted diamonds.
Modernity is constantly reinventing itself, always with the same goal: to find its star or stars, absorb its moons, follow in the footsteps of Venus and be electrocuted by Saturn or Uranus.
Sixty-five times around the Sun. Those who have done more will all say the same thing. The mind seems to freeze around the twenty-fifth revolution. The noggin remains young. My young colleagues are stunned when I tell them my age. They, too, will see. Life is only a matter of the moment. Only one flame distrusts the body, huddling in the nebulous tangle of consciousness.
While it's said that time doesn't really exist, the fact remains that this little flame, always cheerful and punctual, faces the winds of wear and tear, the cracks of fatigue.
Getting old is hard, my mother told me this morning. Brel wrote a beautiful song about it. Yes, this old age is astonishing, but so unoriginal. I blow on the embers of my skin to keep me straight and beautiful. As long as we're healthy, we can afford to hope, enjoy good things and invent amens.
I see myself confronted with what I might do with my future present. Although I don't yet have the inclination or the money to retire, I see myself as a monk receiving people to talk to them about their natal chart, to tell them a story that would give meaning to their decisions.
Maybe it's just a fantasy. You can make a chart for when the Sun returns to the degree of your birth. It sets the tone. In my chart this year, there is a promise of decision, consolidation, and perhaps of conclusion. We'll see. The wise man rules his star; the ignorant man is ruled by it.
Which am I? Wise or ignorant?
