Two of Swords

The Moon crosses into Libra today and hangs level between two scales, weighing nothing, refusing nothing. You sit with it: blindfolded, a blade in each hand, the water behind you moving without sound. There is a decision you have set down carefully, the way one sets down something too hot to hold, and today the setting-down is not cowardice. It is ballast. The gift is stillness — no false move, no word you would spend the week retrieving. The cost is that the scales do not tip themselves, and the longer the cloth stays over your eyes, the more the room rearranges without you. Breathe. Weigh. Then, soon, look.

The blindfold loosens today, not by your hand — a draft moves through the room and the cloth slips. Moon in Libra tilts her scales until the pans no longer hold still, and what you had balanced by refusing to look now names itself. This is the gift: sight returns, and with it the direction you already knew. This is the cost: you cannot un-see it, and the comfort of the even stalemate is spent. Two blades that crossed to hold each other now hang loose. Let the knowing arrive before the deciding. Even a half-lit choice is warmer than the dark you were keeping.