I did the tarot readings. The mix between the Golden Dawn and Jodorowsky's layered approach. I knew enough of astrology, hermetic symbols and numerology to bring understanding to the cards we used as your deck. Black and white and steeped in over mystery, the way of OTO. I was a thoughtful student who knew to take the space for reading.
A breath is needed to bring the center line in focus, and my inclination was towards the best possible outcomes. Also, this was a tool to address the anxiety that so profoundly plagued you. A way to talk about what you resisted because here the cards are random. No fault placed at my doorstep. You could hear the things you were unwilling to listen too otherwise. Shrouded in mystery is how you prefer your truths. Mirrors are too bright a place.
You asked to take them with you, and they never seemed the same. For you did not know how to protect them. It was not some game for wooing women, or to impress your inebriated crew. It was a place for your retelling, stories to connect the new.
Then you asked to read mine, and I politely declined. You insisted. You took a deck you hardly knew and my book.. You persisted. You dealt them out as dealers do. Not bothering to read my looks. So surface was the reading, as careless as your study. Eager you were to please, but the audience wasn't me. No interpretation from your fumbling hands was ever destined to appease.
I suppose you did this to prove you could. That you had no use for me. However, as the reading stood, it was clear how little you could see. The entire reading was unremarkable and halfway through you were bored. How little you thought of futures and less of me I'm sure. You always ignored that I was observant and that the wheels were always turning. For me, it was a tick in growing column A-- Reasons for Leaving.