“I do not belong among those who dislike work; in the eyes of the lazy, I even appear a very diligent man. No, I am not one of those who waste days in idleness, but my work has one grave flaw. I cannot arrange tasks according to their importance, and it seems I shall never learn to do so. Every smallest event pulls me away from what is my main occupation, for I lack the strength and resolve to stay with it and resist what is merely incidental. Thus, it constantly happens that I betray the essential for the peripheral. Sometimes my conscience pricks me for this, but that does nothing to improve matters, for in people like me, no matter how painful, the pangs of conscience are not always sincere and profound enough, and above all, they do not lead to firm decisions and real change for the better. I see that it is no good, yet I repeat the same mistake over and over, and always gnaw at myself inwardly because of it. And all this together harms me greatly.”

— Ivo Andric

Every Mercury in a hard aspect to Jupiter carries this cursed affliction of scattering, of veering into digressions, of hoarding distractions, attention that can plunge deep without restraint—as if it were the only thing left in life—or flicker like a mosquito’s. My Mercury in Sagittarius, squared by Jupiter, knows it well. And Andric’s was in Libra, in exact opposition to Jupiter in Aries. The Signs by the roadside matter more than what’s on the road itself. Side paths outweigh the main streets, and as for feta cheese, prosciutto, and olives—well, let’s not even speak of them before the main course. Renowned spots ought to be in good aspect with Mercury to earn that “good reputation.” That’s why I usually prefer the hidden ones, without fame or signposts to guide you there, where the privilege lies in simply knowing of their existence (if you do), and where I invariably stumble upon someone spinning tales better than Homer—someone you’d never encounter in places where Jupiter serves tiramisu to the tune of some YouTube AI chill playlist. There, everyone sips coffee staring at screens—again, Jupiter square Mercury—and no one talks, so the music has to blare louder to drown out the silence.

Blessed is the one today who finds people to converse with intently for more than 23 seconds, and if they manage seven genuine laughs without pausing for breath—ah, this square again—they might drown in happiness. In the story itself. Every sentence births a new scene, sending us off to something we never meant to see, but now it’s too late! From there unfolds an idea for a reply, arriving hand in hand with a memory, a song, metaphors, a joke—and in the end, I have a forest but no wood to kindle a fire. Or I have the fire, but no pot. Or the pot, but I’ve forgotten what I intended to do with it. And where on earth did I get a pot from anyway!?

Tonight a friend says after a long conversation, “I think they’re eavesdropping on us…” and we burst into laughter. I can only imagine those who’d try to bug me—how often I’d lead their attention astray, and just when it matters, they’d step out to borrow a lighter from someone, since they’re always missing something. So it goes in life too. People listen to me but miss what’s truly important. Unless they listen again—that’s why I tell clients to record sessions. And sure enough, when they return for another consultation, there they are with the same line: “It only sank in later…” Partly because conversational partners like us, with this aspect, always draw them into our own chaos; instead of listening, they launch into their own tales as if conquering unclaimed territory, and we let them, for there’s no fight except with the blank page. That’s why we write.

No doubt the great Andric began writing because no one would listen to him otherwise. Only when we strip ourselves away, leaving just the words, do people slowly piece it together. But if we’re present, there they are, ready to compete—especially when we’d have no real reason to.

Our arms are outstretched, palms open—but whatever we grasp somehow isn’t what we need. Mercury can’t make proper use of anything Jupiter offers! We’re forced to rework Jupiter’s wisdom, forging new paths and thoughts no one has trod before. We offer Jupiter brief, theatrical thanks so as not to seem rude in polite company for the fine association it just provided, though we’ll forget in a flash what it was saying… but as if that matters. And what can Mercury salvage here? Only what it’s experienced. Lived through. Or heard, then romanticized—so one anecdote becomes a novella, one day in a life a full novel. That’s how truly readable books are born! Not from recycled knowledge, but from lived experience. That’s why people trust us, even though we don’t trust ourselves—for we’re not mad enough to believe the self that led us precisely here. We simply can’t fathom how others trust themselves, especially watching them stumble through life clinging to the thinnest straws of salvation.

Though we’re not excessive optimists—except in acute attacks when it catches us off guard—we’re terribly lazy about anything involving counters and public institutions. Resolved to navigate life without guarantees, we’ve tossed out even the warranties for the vacuum and blender, given away our most precious books. We trust the world because we draw from it like a resource, so it suits us for it to endure. The most vital matters little to us, the needless most precious. These aren’t grand words, for anything grand like Faith, Love, Mercy, Justice—that’s Jupiter, from whom we flee hidden among the extras… We prefer a word like dawnlight, or scenic… clear enough not to prompt further questions, yet leaving curiosity so that whatever follows will smell of the unknown, which fades along the way because it doesn’t last. You can’t know! Scenic is always scenic.

Our perception is gently askew. We’ve learned not to consult it like the rest of the world does—and science later confirmed we were right. Still, there’s plenty of room for those who claim keen observation and “reading” people to wrongly add two and two—especially stumbling upon phenomena like us, unreadable precisely because of this square. We reveal ourselves only between the lines, never in close-up. There, we’re mostly an optical illusion (science confirmed that too). And now, as you read this and form an image of me—you haven’t the faintest, and it’s not in my nature to speak of myself unless to say something I’ll forget just as quickly, since it doesn’t matter. Something like that.
But if we decide to retain (absorb) information from the outside world—we take it ALL in. It’s no longer mere detail: the yellow car, the scent of perfume, dust on the window, the man coughing and checking his watch. It’s truly everything, for there’s no filter to declare “this matters—this doesn’t,” lest we go mad if we erred in training our perception. This way is easier: we let it all pass through us like a draft, and it’s a wonder we function at all. We don’t know how. Nor do others know how we manage to endure, live, survive, even triumph (in anything, when we pay no attention). Ah! There’s our secret!Just kidding. And you believed me. There’s no secret. Only leaning on and registering what feels familiar and connected to us. What isn’t—we overlook and pass by. We might ask a serial killer to walk us home, and stunned by himself, he’d still check if we arrived safely, lest some other serial intercept us. For it takes one to know one.

Notifications are our nightmare, but if I do glance, it’ll be an ad for a winery nearby: “Come to the opening!” And it’s in an hour! So I go. Because what if that’s exactly what’s been missing to complete the story—or life. The rest I leave for tomorrow. For the peripheral isn’t just sweeter. In the end, the peripheral is the only thing we truly live, while the main courses always wait somewhere in the future. Just like Andric’s Nobel waited for him, and then? After a few hours, they become the past, while we’re already in some new tale, in a smoky cellar full of laughter, listening to a story that will never make the textbooks—precisely because it’s not for everyone, and because you can only stumble upon it when you live “something in between.” Neither plan nor fate.
Neither fame nor oblivion. Neither peak nor fall. Neither beginning nor end. Neither successful nor failed. Just more than enough.