Being Sorted

I don’t hold any faith in astrology, although I enjoy symbolism and a 90s vibe so aesthetically I’m a fan. That being said, I have never felt like a Capricorn – the most boring goat at the party. Capricorn is in the corner looking at their watch, thinking about their early start. Capricorn is training for a triathlon and will not stop talking about it. Capricorn lectures your friends about the long-term effects of recreational drug use when they’re just trying to have a nice time. I reject Capricorn. When I was younger and clutching at things to believe in, I would speculate that actually, maybe I was really a Sagittarius because I was born two weeks late, and if I’d been on time I would have been. That counts, right? I’m way more Sagittarius than Capricorn. So when NASA found that thirteenth sign in the Zodiac and the whole thing shifted, I was pretty psyched to learn that not only am I not a Capricorn, I’m a motherfucking Sagittarius. Come at me world, I fucking knew it!

Still, there’s only so far that kind of frivolous joy can carry you and the next day my flatmate found me in the kitchen, weeping over chorizo. “What’s wrong with your yellow chakra?”, she asked. “Which one is that?”, I asked. “Identity,” she said. Well damn.

Like most people I know, I’m on a constant journey of self discovery: I am gonna find my truth if it kills me. For years I’ve carried around identities based on little but short-sighted desire; there was a specific way I wanted to be, and I rejected anything that flew in the face of that. I even refused to take the Pottermore Sorting Hat test because I felt, in my heart, that I was a Ravenclaw and if I’d been put anywhere else it might have broken me. But now, well. Now I’m more mature. I’ve opened my mind, and learned to love myself a little bit more than I did before. So maybe I’m not a Ravenclaw, and that would be fine. I could have an easy life in Hufflepuff, growing plants and getting high. I could go on adventures with my fellow Gryffindor buddies. I don’t have to be the smartest person in the room. So I took the test, and turns out I’m a Slytherin. Let me tell you, I did not see that one coming. It’s been a landmark week for the yellow chakra of this Sagittarian serpent.

Of course these are just labels, and not ones that I subscribe to in any legitimate way (at least I’m trying not to or this Slytherin thing would be a real blow). But wherever there’s a label there is community, and a source of comfort. Your battles become so much easier when you feel understood, and it makes sense that self-acceptance would be easier when you’re accepted by others. But I’m not sure, anymore, if this is helpful. There are labels that have haunted me, that I fear identifying with. I’ve spent so many hours reading, researching, desperately hoping to prove that I am one thing, that I’m not another. But none of it has changed the way I experience the world. What I’ve wanted is a way to avoid making difficult decisions – and labels will do that for you. If I am this, I can’t do that. Of course it could never be that simple: truth is in flux, and so am I.

I am kind, most of the time. I’m extroverted to an extent. I am often emotional. I am into joy, but I accept my sadness. I am a writer, and I am writing. And sure, I can be a Slytherin – green is my favourite colour, and they’ve got that gothic vibe going on. I bet they listen to The Cure a lot. I’m fine.

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Being Sorted

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