Taurus Season Begins

The Ceremony of Time.

The Bull Doesn’t Run. It Doesn’t Need To.
The earth spins beneath its hooves.
He is already where he needs to be.

Today marks the beginning of the season of what endures.
Of what persists because it knows how to wait.
Of what doesn’t ask for permission to be heavy, slow, irrevocable.

Taurus is not a sign: it is a ritual of embodiment.
A pagan ceremony where the body is altar
and time, the priest.

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1. The Vibration of the Bull
We’re not talking constellations.
We’re talking gravitational pull.
About how certain energies bind us to the earth
with roots of desire and sacred stubbornness.

Taurus is not explained: it is felt.
Like freshly baked bread.
Like marble under the fingers.
Like the weight of a gold coin in the hand.

This is not metaphor.
This is matter vibrating in mythic code.

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2. The Tone of the Furrow
As direct as a plow.
As sober as a full granary.
As sensorial as skin damp after rain.

Taurus doesn’t ask: it claims by cosmic right.
It doesn’t argue: it declares, glacier-slow.

If there is beauty here, it’s that of wheat growing in silence.
If there is drama, it’s that of roots breaking through stone.

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3. Ritual of Sowing
Short phrases.
Like seeds.
Like ox footsteps.

Ceremonial repetition:
Earth. Body. Patience.
Earth. Body. Patience.

This text is not read: it is sown.
And what resonates will grow when it’s time.

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4. Pagan Lineage
Taurus drinks from:

The furrows in clay.
The chants of sowing.
The sacred geometry of markets.
Astrology as a contract with the tangible.

This is not poetry: it’s geology applied to fate.

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5. The Mysteries of the Bull
The body as conquered territory.
Money as mythological energy.
Pleasure as an act of resistance.
Patience as a form of slow violence.

Taurus does not spiritualize: it embodies.
It does not transcend: it accumulates.

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6. The Voice of Taurus
It is not therapeutic.
It is telluric.

It doesn’t uplift you: it buries you until you bloom.
It doesn’t offer keys: it offers a furrow and a handful of seeds.

It writes like someone who knows you are already thirsty.
But also knows you remember where the river is.

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7. Visual Altar
Colors: Moss green, aged gold, terracotta red.
Textures: Dry clay, moss velvet, petals pressed on parchment.
Typography: Bold. Like tree trunks. Like ancient coins.

Every image must carry weight.
Like a bull.
Like a chest filled to the brim.

Taurus is not an energy.
It is a pact.

A vow made with feet on the earth
and hands full of all that’s worth holding.

Welcome to the season of what endures.

(The bull is already where he needs to be.
And you?)