Sagittarius, thou feral arrow-slinger, thou tavern-born prophet, thou runaway sermon in boots-why art thou ever in motion, as though the Devil himself were thy landlord and rent were due at dawn? Thou canst not sit still, not for prayer, nor supper, nor a single blessed conversation, ere thy spirit crieth, “I must away!” and off thou goest…chasing Freedom like a drunkard chaseth a rolling apple down a hill.
Thou proclaimest thyself a lover of Truth, and indeed thou speakest it-loudly, publicly, and with the tenderness of a brick through a chapel window. “I but speak mine mind,” saith thou, after launching a flaming arrow straight into somebody’s self-esteem. Then thou blinkest, innocent as a lamb, and wonderest why the village hath taken up pitchforks. Aye, Sagittarius thy honesty is not a virtue, ‘tis a weapon thou swingest about like a fool with a sword too long for his own hallway.
And O, thy grand schemes! Thou art ever “starting a new chapter,” though thy life be naught but loose parchment, half-scribbled oaths, and three quests begun in the same week. Thou wilt swear upon Jupiter’s ample belly that thou shalt “be consistent,” then vanish like a witch at cockcrow the moment routine draweth near. Commitments to thee are like corsets: thou puttest them on for show, then wrigglest free and declarest thyself oppressed.
Yet, curse it…I cannot wholly despise thee. For though thou art chaos with a compass, thou art also the spark that setteth the stagnant world alight. Thou makest the timid laugh, the weary remember they have legs, and the overly serious clutch their pearls so hard they near summon a demon. So roam, thou wild thing-only do us this mercy: if thou must speak “Truth,” at least wrap it in a ribbon, and cease flinging it at folk like hot stew.