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Scorpio: the art of stinging
You meet a pair of eyes, deep, dark, intense.
A soul touches you, a soul with unspoken knowledge of dark ways,
the hidden mysteries of love and death. You open yourself to love
in all of its intent, its intensity -- then whammo! Pain surges
up from your own depths as it finds you, rapes you, and tugs you
down.
Falling in love with Scorpio is as easy as falling into his or her
bed. Extricating yourself and assessing the damage is the hard part
since the sting, painful as it is, becomes addictive. It is the
path of death, and darkness, and forgotten light. It is a search
for those eyes again, and yet again long after you both have said
goodbye. It is yearning for the depth of knowing and being known,
of love that demands total surrender, of love that kills. And in
the life that comes after, nothing can compare to that death since
as Persephone knew, you ate Hades' seeds and he is growing within.
And after we say goodbye -- and we always do -- I can no longer
laugh as we did, I cannot joke, for I fail to see anything funny
about dark death. Yet I can still enjoy -- indeed, with Scorpio
I experience the highest and deepest of joy. This is living in all
of its complex splendour. "'Tis ye, tis your estranged faces
that miss the many-splendoured thing..." If you have not loved
and been loved by Scorpio, if you have not succumbed to the sting
and the death and despair, if you have not crawled past the ghosts
of fear in order to regain the light, I pity you, since you have
not learned completely why life is such a gift, and death such a
release from the past.
Not that Scorpio knows this: it is her gift to me. Only if the sting
rebounds can Scorpio follow the path on which she set me, so long
ago, when she refused my hand and sent me away. Only if in some
way the poison is passed back with the goodbye kiss, the last lament,
will Scorpio hear the music playing, know the dirge is for her as
well, know that she also has lost, and that this is justice. It
is also my snarling revenge! For then her secret contained self
will shatter, and the poison that secretes through the stinger become
balm for her soul as the pain starts healing her from within. And
those who in her maturity look into her intense eyes, are not deceived
when they discern love.
Scorpio scorns. Nobody “likes” Scorpio, you either love
or hate the person with passion, and that is exactly how Scorpio
lives. One could claim, if one were imbedded in such a frame of
reference, that it is Scorpio’s “fate” to elicit
the passions of others and expose them, draw them out from their
hidden places and produce them as the treasures they truly are.
The trouble with treasures, though, is that an unexpected surplus
upsets the balance of wealth in one’s world and can lead to
a recession. Scorpio doesn’t care: you pay, you play. And
you pay with birth and death.
Scorpio is the detective who sluices through slime, picking up clues
to the reality of the criminal mind alluding capture. Scorpio is
the pair of eyes that peer from the darkness into the light, seeing
all the shapes and sizes created by that dual interplay, assessing
the inner strength, then pronouncing on structural flaws and features:
this is called “law” and is not meant to aim at an ideal,
but frame what is present. Many disagree with Scorpio here, especially
fair-minded intellectual Libra and philosophical careless Sagittarius,
its optimistic neighbours. But Scorpio lives in the dark and knows
it well, knows its powers and presences and peculiarities, and knows
that if ignored this darkness will subtly and gradually eliminate
the light that steals its treasures. Here lives the unconscious,
the collective, the unmade, the uninformed, the unenlightened. Light
is the enemy, since it forces solidity to fluidity, awareness to
ignorance, death to dreams. Scorpio knows that one who flashes in
and out of this realm to deal death deserves death in return, since
otherwise life itself will die.
Half-in, half out of what enlightened beings (!) call reality, Scorpio
exudes an energy that is that of a magnet, hidden beneath polarities.
If someone follows that allure and dares to descend into Hades,
if someone chooses the parallel time and space that undergirds and
undermines the surface, then unspeakable events happen, untold wealth
unfolds that can never be brought back but must be kept secret within.
Explaining Scorpio is impossible, almost as futile as living in
or with this energy. But it is the power of life.
It is death, true death, which tugs down below roots and river sources,
deep below cold, into the realm of resurrecting royalty. You can
live days without it, but not nights.
Avoid dreams, if you wish to avoid Scorpio.
Avoid power, avoid insight, avoid above all – death.
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