Twenty-seven is not a romantic blur, from up close. It’s a hard year. It’s the year my painter friend was rejected from art school, the year my beloved cousin called “tough… the end of the floaty years,” the year my calm, clear-headed graphic-designer pal changed boyfriends, cities, occupations. She, of all people chalked it up to astrology, to Saturn’s Return.
The astrologists have it that at twenty-seven, Saturn has nearly completed its 29.5 year cycle around the planets, to re-enter the zodiac sign you were born under. He opens a door to what the stargazers call the “Phase of Maturity.”
Saturn is figured as Father Time, a Grim Reaper. He takes your youth, and he crushes it. He is the god who killed all of his children. He is called “The Killing Planet.” And he tells you, quoting Rilke, “You Must Change Your Life.”
My painter friend said, “Fuck graduate school.” She rented a beautiful studio. She plans to do the work, on her own.
(as with anything interesting i post, found via SUILTSOY.)