Last night, when I picked up my tarot pack from its place upon my shelf, a card fell, face down upon my velvet-covered tablecloth. This has been happening more and more frequently as of late. I do so hope there cannot be anything the matter with me.

When I finally overturned it, I found it to be the same card, the same configuration that has been presenting itself to me over the last few days: always I turn up the holy image of Les Amoureux; The Lovers. It has been a strange few days, for I have never cast myself a fate involving love. Perhaps it is meant to signify another’s fate. Perhaps it is an image of the past. Either way, I have accepted that my life as a cartomancer is a lonely one, and therefore, it cannot be my own destiny.

In the waking somnambulism that follows a tarot reading, I have succumbed to a series of imaginary reveries; each one involving a partnership between two beautiful children. One is raven haired and the other’s head is covered with the flaxen remains of a honeyed sunset, as pale and fair as one of the Alseid, from Homer’s verses. How beautiful they both are, and yet, I am filled with despair when I see their painted image atop the card. I will go to my window alone and look out at the mountains through the counterpane, for I am very sad.

Love is a strange entity, forever changing. Some of us merely prepare a lover for their next relationship. Some of us travel as far as we wish to go before leaving in a plaintive display of profound irritation. Some of us cannot seem to find a way out of the subaqueous depths that a lover has left us in. All the tarot card tells me is that: when love is what propels you, for your partner as well as yourself, then you find the right answer. How strange of me, but on this night, I do not think that I am capable of believing it!






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