The plane was late. And from the perspective of those who travel, being late is just another word for waiting. Everything important in life arrives, but only if you wait. If you’re in a hurry and refuse to wait, if you rush to “not waste time,” you chase. You chase… and you never quite arrive. For a long time, I was a chaser. It felt like if I stopped, everything would grind to a halt. I moved through life with quick steps, lightly leaping over obstacles like hurdles on a track. I bruised my ankles and feet—my weak spots, like a horse’s, born under the Sagg’s star. I made missteps, like an athlete on a course, starting too soon, falling out of rhythm, circling back, catching up to myself, only to leave myself behind again.

Sagittarius is the journey. All the wide streets that spill onto highways. My first stop was near highway. Then Konjarnik, where the Eastern Gates stand like sentinels at the city’s edge. Košutnjak followed, with its running trails and hippodrome. But always near the city’s entrances and exits and highway, as if I’d never truly arrived to stay. Just like all of us in this world, in this life. We’re all passing through. Why does Sagittarius think of this daily? It must tie to the Scorpion that comes before. Just as crime, corruption, and violence spark the need for Jupiter’s justice and laws, the Scorpion’s shadow of death seems to chase the Sagg, urging him to seek answers. Where are we going? Quo vadis?

And so we sought out religions, philosophies, and countless teachings. Billions of books were written, all in an attempt to soothe the Scorpion’s restless anxiety. But the Capricorn, who follows Sagittarius, warns that we were perhaps too hopeful. “It’s all well and good,” Capricorn says, “but it’s not quite as you think. Because, you see, even that journey—it leads you back.” “Back to being born again?” “No, no… nothing so intricate. Back to nature—back to the trees, the stars, the earth, the water…”

I moved as if I were fleeing, switching places to cover my tracks. Patience for waiting? I never had it. By the time I reached my fortieth year, if you gathered all my waiting and zipped it into a single file, it would amount to roughly five months and twenty-three days. And that was mostly me, lovesick, waiting for the postman for love letters. It was also waiting for phone calls, especially those I hoped for in quiet dread, praying someone would pick up and say, “Everything’s fine.” That was before smartphones. Smartphones killed that tradition. Now everything’s instant, everyone’s online. There’s no one left to wait for. We see it all, know it all, and our rational minds kick in, algorithms charting the next route based on the data we’ve got. How many people would’ve called each other a hundred times by now if they hadn’t seen who was online or what they’d liked? That’s why we don’t even realize we’re lost—because it doesn’t feel like we are.

Waiting, though, is the complete absence of knowing what lies ahead.

Waiting is doing something else, then a third thing, while you bide your time. That’s usually when some love, some skill, some passion takes root. Music, painting, photography, writing, astrology, cooking—whatever it may be. Only in waiting do we stumble upon all sorts of discoveries.

Waiting isn’t Saturn; it’s Neptune.

Saturn is how the one who waits appears to us—rigid, enduring. But how it feels to them? That’s Neptune—fluid, dreamy, boundless.

Not everyone will fully grasp Neptune, that deep, demanding, metaphysically heavy force. But in the beginning, we all wait there. At first, we wait and we dream, we fantasize. Later, as the waiting stretches on, we teeter—halfway to madness, halfway to faith. At some point, it splits, as Neptune always does, like a river delta fanning out. We either lean a little more into madness or a little more into belief. When we think, “Aha, a revelation!” or “There’s the sign!” it often leads us back to solitude and a gentle kind of madness, though we don’t realize it right away. If we lose ourselves too much, the Sun, Mars, or Saturn—those sharp, grounding forces—step in to jolt us back. Like a parent snapping a child out of a video game addiction with a stern tone or a harsh consequence, or like a crisis that yanks us from dreams and fantasies into reality.

And if we lean more into belief, we don’t need external connections. We lose that tether, slipping through life quietly, letting things stick to us like stray bits of lint, brushing off the excess like fallen leaves from our shoes. We stop reading altogether. We listen only to what clings to us, selective and instinctive. With Neptune, we don’t go searching for our true self—we might only stumble upon it by chance. The same goes for a friend, a partner, or a fleeting opportunity. No goals, no ladders to climb, just an inner compass guiding us.

Then, at some point, you completely lose sight of what you were waiting for. You can’t recall. Nothing feels like a vision anymore. What you once saw as signs no longer holds meaning. What seemed like a dream? It was just a dream after all. The excitement sinks, and that’s why it’s not for everyone. Many reach this point but, to avoid slipping into despair, they pull themselves out with stimulation—a counterfeit life, an alter ego. And yet, that’s still a kind of life. Ask the Pink Panthers what they think, or those sitting in stolen leadership roles today, flashing fake titles and diplomas.

It’s not easy, I tell you, to live Neptune’s path to the end. Yet it’s necessary if we want to save ourselves… from ourselves. The other way—the way the world lives today—can be summed up in one word: plastic. Synthetic. Fake. A whole life becomes a lie. That’s when people start out well but get stuck, trapped in that artificial sheen. And yet, I’ll say it again: that’s always been the easier route, even if it’s toxic.

But when we surrender fully to Neptune, we go all the way, no matter what’s in our chart. No one who takes this path turns back. Here, you meet what has found you and give yourself to it completely. You become a mystic, a wanderer, nameless, a secret, a wonder. It’s not about having Pisces in your chart, or Neptune rising, or Venus dancing with Neptune in some aspect. Take Vlado Georgiev, for instance, with his exact Venus-Neptune opposition. He’s glimpsed truths about love and lies that many with this aspect will never touch. Through his songs, he’s explained that aspect better than some astrology books ever could. It’s not enough to just have the aspect. Millions with Venus-Neptune will live without ever willingly letting themselves be poisoned, lied to, deceived, or seduced—all the things Vlado sings of while he’s caught in the haze, enchanting his listeners, casting spells that make them feel it all in an instant: lovesick, lonely, remembering someone they’d never otherwise recall.

We all have Neptune in our charts, no question. But to reach Neptune, you must navigate a labyrinth where our ancestors buried countless secrets. The schizophrenia of a grandfather who ended up hanging himself. Grandmothers who, in hushed village corners, brought about miscarriages. Decades of political imprisonment for ancestors who were neither guilty nor indebted. Covered-up murders ordered by secret services, stolen children, planted lies that sparked further tragedies—like in that heartrending, brilliant film Atonement. All the truly doomed loves, misery and betrayals.

Because Neptune is SIN.
Yes.

It’s not reiki, not manifestation, not spiritual teachings or conspiracy theories, not tapping rituals or the magic of universal numbers some chant to ward off bad vibes. Or maybe it is all those things—until, sooner or later, we abandon them. We snap out of it, like when the neighbor’s chandelier crashes to the floor above us, the jolt shaking us awake. Neptune is simply our capacity to believe in everything—absolutely everything. It doesn’t declare, “This is the truth.” It doesn’t say, “Here’s your soulmate” (though we’d love it to). It’s just our power to believe in it all. That’s why we keep inventing something new. Because we never quite proved the last thing either.

We inherit Neptune as living witnesses to those sins. It’s as if only by pausing, by embracing an Odyssean absence from life, we save ourselves from ourselves. Yet in our younger years, that other path often lures us into deception, lies, promiscuity, or vice. A nightmare of illusions, false hopes, and romantic disillusionments. We dive headlong into excessive devotion—whether to a church, veganism, or some rigid way of life—because, beyond being sin, Neptune is about devotion. Total, all-consuming surrender. Giving yourself over completely. So we sin first, whether we’ve thrown ourselves fully into meditation, God, or alcohol.

We learn to yield to vices, to all those things that will betray us ten times over, disappoint us, shatter our trust in a painful convulsion as we crisis-crave peace. We rush to escape into something new, anything to flee from ourselves, to dedicate ourselves to a fresh lie. We chase the pain of betrayal, abandonment, oblivion—forgetting that, from the start, we’ve been accomplices. Then, around forty, when Neptune forms a square with its natal position, it asks us again:

 

QUO VADIS?

 

…where are you going? Another chance. But by then, we’re older. We don’t drink like we used to. We don’t hope like we used to. Even those honeyed illusions have abandoned us. So, without excitement, in a strange absence from our own life—where nothing you’re living feels like it belongs to you—you pause. You don’t run, you don’t conjure illusions. That absence wipes the traces of sin from your psyche, reminding you of peace. You wait, not expecting anything, not knowing who you are or what you’ll become. You just… wait. And that’s when I stopped. I stopped chasing. When you do that, something always happens—something necessary to disconnect you, to start saving you… from yourself. For me, it was my child.

But if we keep going down the old path, we stumble into humiliations, the turned backs of those who were friends just yesterday. We end up alone, with no one to even greet. Or we’re surrounded by people, but only false faces. Or, at the end of our vices—drugs, pills, alcohol—depression waits, born of unspent love. Love that was never given, never shared. And so come the stents, those tiny mesh tubes that prop open blood vessels, offering the heart one more chance to breathe.

Neptune is the secret we must uncover for ourselves—that we are worthy of love. That we can be loved. That we can give love uncontrollably, without restraint. We’ve all felt that sharp pang slicing through our ribs when we’re happy, as if something cracked open and spilled inside us, burning because we’re breathing deeper, as if wings have sprouted where our lungs once were. In that moment, you can even let go of the cigarettes—not out of fear of illness or age, but because we no longer need stoppers to hold back our love.

And so, when we’re sad and tears come, we’re always crying for ourselves. When we want to forgive someone, we’re forgiving those parts of ourselves we see in them, but first, we recognize them as us. When we feel someone’s absence, it’s ourselves we miss—the whole life we haven’t lived, everything that didn’t happen and, truthfully, couldn’t have. Because if it had, trust me, we’d find something else to call impossible, something else to tie us to the eternal, the forever mystical, the unknown, the anonymous, the forgotten, the depth as vast as the secret itself.

There you have it.
I’ve laid it all bare, but it won’t save you.

You have to save yourself from yourself. From the vile characters we tried so hard not to resemble, only to realize that in rejecting them, we rejected love too, and ended up doing the very same things they did.

Because Neptune is sin—until it becomes love.

And to close, Gibonni, because in this song, Neptune’s trident pierces every line.
Those who’ve felt it, know.

 

Tijelo zemlji nek je zrno,
duša preseli u drvo,
u tišinu svojih godova.
Kao paučina ispletena
sva su lica, sva imena
samo svijetla noćnih brodova…
Mogu biti bor na vjetru
sam u mraku, sam na svijetlu
Drvo u tišini šume,
jer me šume sve razume.
Mogu biti to što jesam
zabludama svojim tesan,
živo drvo ipod kore
čekam ruke da me stvore
da bih bio veslo broda
spokojan kraj divljih voda,
šibice sto noću vide,
bijeli štap što zna gdje ide.
Biti jedna od dasaka
koja oda hod koraka,
odškrinuta vrata sobe
puštam svijetlo što te zove k meni…

Pusti Ljubav da prolista
na koncu čista
k’o sunca trak
Pusti Bože da je slavim
U te ruke stavim
Dušu za kraj

Kad me vrate zemlji crnoj
duša preseli u drvo
u tišinu svojih godova
u tom času pomirenja
sve su krivnje, poniženja
jeka iz dalekih rovova.

Već sam bio trn u oku,
batina o desnom boku,
već sam bio stup od srama
što na vijeke mora s nama.
Već sam bio kundak puške
gurnute u ruke muške,
oštar iver ispod kože
napravi me boljim, Bože!

Daj da budem dom za ptice
svoga Neba prognanice,
neba što u nama diše
i od ljudi pravi kiše.
Daj da budem okvir slika
od svih mojih saputnika,
slika što na grudi stišćem
šušte kao suho lišće.

A na slici moja mati,
mlađa no je mogu znati,
još je dijete što prkosi
dok u sebi dijete nosi.
Jedna slika oca moga
u samoću urasloga,
što na pozdrav diže ruku
šalje nijemu oporuku
meni…..

I evo ja na rubu šume
djeca pale stare gume
plamen što se nebu penje
mjesto čuvat će za mene.
Mjesto gdje je šapat krila
noćnih ptica i leptira,
ptica koje grade gnijezda
duši starijoj od zvijezda.
Tu su ispred kuće moje
i Ta što kuca
znamo tko je!
Ja sam zemlja
duh je ptica,
samo Božja pozajmica
meni…