At first, I believed these Bāzì images—life elements drawn from birth data—were just a private language.
I made it my own romantic system of symbols, ritualized fantasies kept in a hidden corner, a secret code generating images of different souls.
But these symbols have a strange way of returning.
They seem reflections of single moments, yet they stumble through time and resurface repeatedly, as if something primal is insisting upon itself.
They don’t just describe us.
They echo through us.
She simply had a perspective.
She held to her interpretation of a story.
She was clever, radiant, brave.
And for that, she died.
Who endowed us with this sacred impulse? Shuttling between tangible worlds and metaphysical realms, only the instinct toward pilgrimage remains real.
Allow this moment to spin on… let it be more splendid, even if our flesh is already raw and crimson, marked by countless scars.
For where divinity has fallen, there lies eternal ruin.
Dynastic symbols chosen by emperors were intended to secure their rule and legacy. However, the true essence of an era transcends the elemental cycles. Dynastic fortunes are shaped profoundly by the deeper social currents and the emergent tides of popular sentiment—forces often independent from elemental constraints.
What, then, defines the true color of an era?