Skip to main content

The Things I’ve Blamed Mercury Retrograde For

Mercury Retrograde—if you’ve ever scrolled through Facebook or overheard a group chat, you know it’s the ultimate cosmic scapegoat. The planet that supposedly rewinds, messing up communication, technology, and even relationships. When things go wrong, it’s not your fault—it’s Mercury playing its tricks.

At this point, accordingly, Mercury is in retrograde again.

Which must be why I left my term paper in the dusty printer tray of an old computer shop where I had it printed.
Why I mistakenly told my students that their exam is next Monday.
Why I agreed to take a sideline job and design a layout at 10 PM while eating Lucky Me pancit canton and listening to a pirated System of a Down CD—submission due in three hours.

It had to be Mercury.
The stars. The cosmos. The planetary gods punishing me for believing I could survive on instant coffee and obligation.

Because surely, it wasn’t my fault.

It wasn’t my fault I forgot to save the updated Excel file and had to retype 87 names by candlelight during a brownout.
It wasn’t me who misplaced the contract between the folds of a my grading sheet I used as scratch paper.
It couldn’t be me who was spiraling into burnout but still said “Sige lang, kaya pa.”

Let me guess—retrograde?

But the truth is harder and far more boring:
I was tired.
I was overwhelmed.
I didn’t want to disappoint anyone, so I disappointed myself instead.

 I blamed Mercury when:

  • After a tense office meeting, the accusations of favoritism stuck like a burr. I slammed the door hard—not out of weakness, but frustration.

  • I snapped at a jeepney driver weaving recklessly then carried the bitter aftertaste in my mouth all day.

  • I said something careless to a co-worker who only wanted to help—and spent the next week avoiding eye contact.

Sometimes I’d sit on the terrace after work, letting the Baguio breeze slap some sense into me, and whisper,
“Maybe this is just cosmic turbulence. Maybe I’m not the problem.”
But deep down, I knew.

It wasn’t Mercury who made me self-destruct with politeness.
It wasn’t the stars that built this fortress of quiet resentment and martyrdom.
It was me, performing strength while privately falling apart.

And maybe that’s what astrology is for—not truth, but tenderness.
Not science, but soft excuses we give ourselves when accountability feels too sharp.

I still blame Mercury, just a little.
When my umbrella flips inside out during a typhoon.
When the barangay captain ignores my text because I forgot to preload.
When I eat too much SkyFlakes and call it dinner.

Because blaming Mercury gives me room to laugh.
And laughing keeps me afloat, even when everything feels like it's sinking.

Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

A Blank Verse Poetry

I ran this morning. Gray sky, nothing special. Weather that doesn’t force you to feel anything. Usually, I wander without purpose. Today, something stopped me. Time is a trap. We pretend it’s limited, but it isn’t. So we rush through it—steps, choices, life—until it all blurs. The small things disappear. The smell of earth, the quiet air. Gone. A song got stuck in my head. “I’ll stop the world and melt with you.” Unwanted. Persistent. How did it get in? Maybe fate. Maybe nothing. I don’t believe in destiny, but here I was—stuck in the sound, stuck in a loop. The world paused inside me. I didn’t move. The day went on. Hands trembled—not from connection, but from the weight of existing. Scars on skin—maps of past failures. Nothing clean, nothing clear. I touched a cheek. No softness. Smoke? Habit? Grip loosened—like sanity slipping. Wanting to let go, but afraid of the emptiness that follows. I kissed a cheek. A stupid move. A laugh broke the silence. A glitch. A mistake. Coffee a...
Post a Comment
Read more

The Slow Death of the Familiar Lie

The 2025 elections just ended. Not with fireworks, not with riots—just the quiet unraveling of yet another chapter in our nation’s long and complicated dance with democracy. There’s something different in the air this time. Something subtle, like the way dusk falls before you even realize the day is gone. You feel it before you name it: a shift. Not seismic, perhaps not even visible to the untrained eye. But there, like a whisper at the edge of a crowded room. People have grown wiser. And no, this isn’t naive optimism. It’s not the kind of blind faith that wears campaign colors and chants slogans. It’s the kind of wisdom that comes from repeated heartbreak—from choosing hope too many times, only to be betrayed by men in suits and smiles. From believing in change only to see it morph into the same old trapo politics dressed in newer fonts. “Pain is a brutal but effective teacher—especially in a country where memory is often the first casualty of every election cycle.” But maybe ...
Post a Comment
Read more

The Tension Between Hope and Despair

This is w here the light breaks just to drown. Hope isn’t some pretty thing. It’s a slow burn that keeps you awake at night, fooling you with a whisper, “Maybe this time.” It digs its claws in, even when everything screams you’re done. Hope’s the hook you can’t shake, even when it’s tearing you apart from the inside. Despair doesn’t wait politely. It crashes in like a storm, cold and sharp, and it doesn’t care if you’re ready or not. It doesn’t dance with hope—they fight. It’s brutal, ugly. Despair wants to swallow everything whole, leaves no room for mercy. There’s no peace between them. It’s a war you didn’t sign up for, but you live it every damn day—grasping for that fragile flicker, even as the darkness tightens around your throat. You hold hope like a lifeline but feel despair pulling the knot tighter. No balance. No graceful dance. Just a mess of broken promises and shattered dreams. Hope keeps you chasing ghosts; despair waits, patient, knowing it will win. And the worst p...
Post a Comment
Read more