On Indolence and Hangovers
The Eight of Cups: stagnant and constrained like an inland swamp. The sea, with its stormy passions and turmoil are far off; instead I’m bogged down with an acute numbness, every step I take is heavier than the last. No longer am I drunk on the poison waters of debauchery (The Seven of Cups). No, that momentary and disillusioned bliss has given way to the stark reality that I’ve wandered far from any river, any stream, any flowing water at all. It’s putrid here and if I stay and drink more, I’ll only become more ill.
Some days it’s okay if I don’t get out of bed. I can revel under the covers knowing that these strange aches and dreams portend that Happiness (The Nine of Cups) is on the horizon. The path there, however, is intense — a journey through the great purifying fire of the Sun. Even the most noxious toxins can’t survive its radiant fire and the water will begin to move again, upward now, vapor into clouds into rain.