Fortune tellers gaze pointedly at their crystal balls. Looking for what, our secrets? our lies? We want to know, even the cynical, if they're honest.
We don't so much want to know about our pasts - we already know what lay in that retrospective journey. We want to know the future. Will he be handsome? Will he be rich? Will he make me happy? Doh Doris!
Tea leaves room for creativity and imagination, even more creative genius is required if a teabag has been used.
Our palm can peer into the direction of our souls. Not sure what the fortune teller would make of my latest line from a careless episode at pumpkin peeling with a new knife. The novelty of which quickly wore off as the skin parted and blood seeped. I've worried over my lifeline for many years now, since the time I thought 13 was old.
There's also the iris which can be gazed into and the contents of the soul packed into a small green, blue, brown or hazel bag. All very mystical, if not very believable.
And then there are the joys of the horoscope. I'm a sucker for a good, optimistic horoscope which promises love and good choices. I ignore the horrorscopes and put it down to the writer having PMT or something similar. Being the optimist, I find the horoscope of my choice when trawling through a range of online psychic portals, scoping the good ones which are probably regurgitated on some sort of cosmic rotor.
Anyway today, my timing is exquisite (which is brilliant because cleaning the loo needs exquisite [WT...] timing ...). A disciplined, regular routine will lead to more energy (well cleaning the loo is by its very nature, in a hygenic household, routine). I wonder if the spirits stick around when you're liberalig annointing the bathroom with bleach?
Well that must be proof in the pudding, with exquisite timing I executed an energetic going over the loo.
Life ... life ... where are you?
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