The Moon

Pisces opens the water beneath the day, and you walk it by moonlight — which is to say you see enough, never all. The path exists. It simply refuses to prove itself more than one step ahead. Today your instinct runs ahead of your reasons, and it is worth following, though you cannot yet explain where it learned the way. That is the gift: a knowing that arrives before language. That is the cost: you move without the comfort of certainty, and something in you will want to stop and demand a map. Let the fog be a companion rather than an enemy. Trust the next step only. It is enough.

The fog has been your country long enough. Today the Moon turns her lit face away, and what she withdraws is permission — permission to keep reading the wall's shadows as omens, to call dread intuition because both arrive without words. Pisces runs deep in you, but a deep current can circle the same drowned room for years. The gift is the lamp: name one fear aloud and watch it shrink to its true size, no larger than a coat on a hook. The cost is the loss of the story you were telling, and the ache of standing in plain, unmysterious light with nothing left to fear.