Intimate Oracle

Pluto will take you to a very dark place before he gives you whatever the f**k you are obsessed with. And for that, he'll take something you can never have back.

So why do we get obsessed? Maybe it's dread, a gnawing feeling that you could miss out on the thing you desperately need. That s**t can ruin your sleep and ruined sleep makes the day miserable since every waking hour is spent on trying to fill a void that only grows the more you feed it.

Have a loοk at yourself. You're being consumed by a hunger for something, be it money, s*x, power, whatever fantasy you have of becoming whole, which, deep down feels kinda depraved. And the things you do to "get some" can turn into hidden shame. And the dirtier you feel, the harder you work to hide it.

It's like Dorian Gray, really. The portrait he kept hidden in the attic, the thing that bore his true age and every one of his transgressions, remained banished from sight. His inability to look at it was the very thing eating away at him. When he finally tried to destroy the evidence rather than face it and work through it, integrate it, the blade went into himself. It killed him.

Pluto is crawling backwards through Aquarius, so our obsessions have migrated into the electrical field, where what we fixate on promises connection to the greater network and yet delivers the opposite, leaving us more disconnected, dispossessed and hollow than before. Its impact to this Virgo New Moon is massive, since Virgo is striving for a pristine body and it feels as though the obsessions have already polluted the process. And with Venus about to square in from Scorpio, any compulsion to satisfy obsessive desires can turn your affairs into mutually destructive and life-spoiling, or else spiral into debasement of character.

It's gonna take everything you got to avoid driving this into the sewers, but it's probably worth the trade.

Sometimes life takes a turn
and the people who once gave you a hard time
are suddenly back in your life.

Not as they were.
Not necessarily as you remember them.
And perhaps not even as the person you once needed them to be.

They return carrying their own story.

And you are carrying yours.

This is where the strange paradox of relationship begins.

We imagine that when we leave someone,
we leave the relationship behind.

But perhaps we don't.

Perhaps a relationship doesn't end
when two people stop speaking.

Something remains.

A sentence we never understood.
A wound we never finished feeling.
A version of ourselves that existed only in their presence.
A question that quietly follows us into other rooms,
other friendships, other years.

We burn the bridge
and then spend years discovering
that the river was running through us too.

Some people fight and walk away forever.

Others fight, separate, return,
and somehow find a different language for what happened.

And sometimes the astonishing thing is not
that they come back...

but that when they do,
you are no longer the person who needed them to be different.

Perhaps that is what reconciliation sometimes means.

Not pretending the past didn't happen.

Not declaring anyone innocent.

Not even becoming close again.

Simply meeting the other person
without needing the old story to continue.

Because maybe the deepest relationship
is not between you and them.

Maybe it is between
the two versions of yourselves
that met through each other.

The one who hurt.
The one who was hurt.

The one who left.
The one who stayed.

The one who built the bridge.
The one who set fire to it.

And strangely,
both belonged to the same unfolding.

We speak of relationships as though
there are separate people entering into them.

But what if relationship is what reveals
that the separation was never quite as complete
as we thought?

You affect me.
I affect you.

Your words become part of my inner voice.
My silence becomes part of your memory.

We carry fragments of one another
long after we believe we have gone our separate ways.

So perhaps there are no truly separate stories.

Only stories that temporarily believe
they are separate.

And this is where life becomes almost impossible to explain.

Because sometimes it seems
we are making all these choices...

building, burning, leaving, returning, forgiving...

and sometimes it feels as though
life is simply happening through us.

As Michael Markham says,
we have the best seats in the house.

We watch Life's dream unfold.

And perhaps the deepest question isn't
whether the dream wakes up.

Perhaps it is this:

What if the one who wakes up
is the one who finally sees
that there was never a separate dreamer
watching the dream?

Perhaps the bridge,
the river,
the one who burned it,
the one who rebuilt it...

were never separate things.

Perhaps they were always
one movement of the same life.

I just like to sit and
ponder the very lucid
idea that now is now
somewhere. There isn't a
now anywhere.
Everywhere in the
universe is a different
now. Light just bouncing
around throughout the
universe. Everywhere
that it lands or appears
to land, it's now and it
takes billions of years to
fractions of a split
second in everywhere in
between for it to appear
to be landing
somewhere. So that now
is a very lucid illusory
non-concept. It doesn't
exist anywhere. There's
nowhere where it can be
because when we
perceive that it's now
here, it's only now here.
And that I am perceiving
my now at the only place
where now is for me and
it's nowhere else ever.
The sun gave off its light
that reaches my eyes
when I look at the sun
eight minutes ago. And
our nearest star that
gives off its light is how
far away in terms of light
travel, it's absurd to
reckon on it being now
anywhere. Even my now
isn't correct. It's eight
minutes old.
Be lucid in this dream.
~Intimate Oracle

Most people don’t realize their thoughts are controlling them. The trap begins when you believe every thought that enters your mind. A thought whispers, “I’m not good enough.” You identify with it. Emotion follows. Action follows. Eventually, repetition turns that thought into a life pattern.

But you are not the thought. You are the awareness observing it. Think of the mind as a television: thoughts are the channels; you are the watcher. You cannot always control what appears on the screen, but you can control what receives your attention. The moment you observe a thought instead of becoming it, you begin stripping it of authority.

A thought may enter your mind, but it cannot become action without your will. Thought influences emotion. Emotion influences action. Repeated action shapes your reality. Learn to stand behind the mind and choose what receives your consciousness.

Master your mind—or your mind will become your master.

“Man know thyself; then thou shalt know the Universe and God.”- Pythagoras

I am rattled. I am aghast. I am in grief about the mayhem and atrocities that the Trump administration and its allies have unleashed upon the world.

MAGA is a terrorist theocratic sect. ICE is a secret police force conducting ethnic cleansing. The Project 2025-sponsored “president” is a foreign-backed fascist thug perpetrating a coup d’état.

America has been invaded and occupied by a hostile oligarchic death cult.

I don't toss around these words lightly. They aren't hyperbole born of a temporary bad mood. They come from watching the erosion of truth and the demonization of the vulnerable. Without any doubt, we're in the midst of an ever-tightening clench of barbaric authoritarian power.

Millions of lives are imperiled and the earth is brutalized. A grotesque parody of faith poisons millions of imaginations.

And yet, despite my horror at the runaway abominations, I'm still a passionate devotee of pronoia: the hypothesis that the universe is conspiring to shower us with blessings.

Pronoia isn't denial or naïve optimism. My pronoia is rowdy, muscular, feisty, and complicated. It recognizes the grief and the terror, the corruption and the cruelty — and still insists on seeking out the currents of benevolence flowing all around us.

When I rail against the oligarchic death cult, I do so with the conviction that we're also surrounded by multitudes of life celebrations: people and movements devoted to compassion, justice, erotic intelligence, and ecological repair.

For every ICE agent wielding unconscionable cruelty, there's a grandmother planting milkweed for the monarch butterflies. For every demagogue sowing hatred, there are communities weaving resilience out of music, prayer, dance, and boisterous rituals.

Pronoia teaches me that to resist effectively, I’ve got to cultivate joy as fiercely as I curate my outrage. My anger fuels my sacred fight, and my glee and bliss nurture my soulful lust for life. The fascists want us depleted, numb, passive, and cynical. But pronoia dares me to be tender, ecstatic, and wildly imaginative even as I confront their horrors.

So I hold both truths: America has been assaulted and overrun by a hostile oligarchic death cult perpetrating its toxic rot. And yet the universe is still conspiring, through love and mystery, to shower us with blessings. My task is to live inside this paradox with brazen courage, to grieve and celebrate at once. I mourn the mayhem while magnifying the miracles.

That’s my resistance. That’s my pronoia.

To embody pronoia in this vicious time is to make ourselves vivacious transmitters of the LIFE FREQUENCY — and an antidote to the putrid, festering frequency suppurating from the death cult’s megaphones.

It means practicing daily acts of enchantment and solidarity: feeding one another, protecting and amusing one another, making art, singing loud, showing up in the streets, and inventing rituals of care that remind us we are radiant animals keen on claiming our right to delight.

It means refusing the invitation to collapse into despair, and instead cultivating a stamina of wonder and a muscular aptitude for gratitude. Our feral exuberance that can’t be domesticated by fear.

To bestow pronoia is to treat our imaginative joy and fertile reverence as contagious medicine. When we embody it, we bless others with our bold joie de vivre. When we laugh and carouse and celebrate with audacity, we undermine authoritarian control.

As we love with unruly devotion, we unmask the fraudulence of their necropolitics. In this way, pronoia is a steady blast of festive resistance, a raucous healing counter-spell, a treasure we circulate to nourish the fire of our brilliant compassion, our genius empathy, and our unconquerable drive for justice.

Image is from my Tarot deck

✨️

What if soul contracts aren’t a thing?

What if you never sat at some cosmic table before you got here and signed a deal about who you’d meet, what you’d suffer, and which lessons you “agreed” to learn?

What if that idea is just another story that sounds deep but quietly hands your life over to fate?

The only contract you actually have is this:
you exist.

You showed up. You’re here.
Breath in your lungs.
Days in front of you. That’s it.

Everything after that is written by habits and choices., mostly subconscious.

Not some pre-written script. Not a soul agreement you forgot. Not a lesson you “had to” go through so you could evolve.

If your today is heavy, look at the patterns you keep feeding.

If your relationships keep repeating the same wreckage, look at what you tolerate and what you chase.

If you’re stuck, look at what you do when nobody’s watching.

That’s the contract. Daily. Unromantic. Yours.

You are not a victim of a deal you signed in another lifetime. You are the author of this one. Every small decision is a vote for the person you’re becoming.

Every repeated habit is a signature on the next chapter.

Some people use “soul contract” language to explain pain without taking the wheel. It can feel comforting. It can also become an excuse.
The harder, cleaner truth is this: you are fully in control of what happens next based on what you do next.

That doesn’t mean you control every event. It means you control your response, your standards, your work, your word, your body, your time, and the company you keep.

That’s enough power to change a life.

Stop waiting for the universe to honor an agreement you never remember making.

Honor the one that’s already in your hands.

You exist. Now act like it matters.
~Intimate Oracle