Scheherazade, from the film of the same name, 1963
In a season of retrograde shade, darkness becomes more pronounced. Its constant frame and equal music no longer hidden, denied or ignored. Our occult torrents like its mainstream and everything long buried suddenly unforgets itself all at once. Memories crowd the superhighway at night. No one can bear the future anymore. Nostalgia and the great undone mingle by the holes in the world.
The shadows dancing by the old jukebox aren’t demons, just what they became after their haunted houses were left abandoned. Still they raise brimming eyes towards the door. Conflicts sit spooked at the threshold of revolution, traumatised relics of the refusal to learn or lean in. Their storybooks open upon the altar still, haunting recursive every time the stars spin.
Careful or you might just catch that identity wound in the unbearable light. As anaretica crumbles under the glare of Scorp’s long shadows, the Sun teeters on the margins at the galeforce end of Libra. There’s little diplomacy left here. Diametrically opposed in Aries, Chiron is ever the centaur who did it with a broken heart. Retrograding over all those old tipping points, salting and sating in equal measure. Scar tissue setting hard that keeps whispering, remember the cliffhangers that saved your life. All the old tapes unravel in the sun.
Deep in the interior the queen of heaven is similarly blinded. She cannot make it to the sky. The flames are licking at her bare bones. In the last stretch to a star point she has known this past century as the sharpest instrument of her rebirth. Heading once again and for all time towards a terminal aperture, drawn irrevocably towards its pyre.
Now left with only her thinnest skin, her truest knowing and a heart drumming the psychopomp’s lament.
Like Scheherazade, I told stories to death so that it would spare my life
~ Silvia Ocampo
Words c. Kerrie Basha 2026 ⚔️Bohomofo is an AI Free Zone