I’ve become an obsessive devotee of astrology, and one of the recommendations for growing your hair out is to cut it while the moon is waxing (transitioning from new to full). This helps it grow faster. There’s a full moon in Capricorn on Monday, which is supposed to signify endings. One of the tarot readers I religiously watch was baffled by the energies coming through. All the astrological signs seemed to be mirroring the same energies, everyone felt chaotic and splintered.
Heartache is such a weird experience. It always goes in phases, coming in and out. I was watching a Matthew Hussey video on break ups and he said that the mourning process transitions from being the main event to eventually moving into the background, and then completely disappearing. I feel like I’m at a place where mourning seems to be moving into the background, but then there are days like today where it catches up to me and I feel it all too intensely.
The full moon might be to blame, it’s hypnotic chaotic energies luring out my emotions, even the ones I refuse to confront. I get mass texts from a relationship coach and he sent one today encouraging me to be myself. I started crying when I read it. On my way back from Whole Foods I crossed paths with a father with soft brown eyes and yearned. Love is such a strange and cryptic beast.
There’s a Susan Sontag quote that I think about a lot “what is the most beautiful in virile men is something feminine, what is most beautiful in feminine women is something masculine.” I feel so drawn to a specific kind of softness in men, but their rejection always leaves me confused. I can’t figure out if my femininity is misplaced, or if my womanhood is too strange to be palatable. I try not to get too existential about it though. Walking down a crowded street reminds me that we all have our quirks and eccentricities, no one is perfect, and we all struggle to feel seen and find connection.
The older I get the more mysterious my femininity and sexuality becomes. It’s like an animal that comes alive and separates me from my waking self, the one devoted to paying the bills and attending to responsibilities. I remember when I was in my teens I used to look at single women in their 30s and 40s with an almost obsessive curiosity. I wondered about their sexuality. Did they want to get fucked? Did they miss getting fucked? Now that I’m one of them, I know the answer.
a soft death 