You set your face toward the road ahead and the old wound drags it crosswise, heading and hurt hauling at a hard angle. Chiron, the centaur with its arrow still buried in, crosses the north node, the lunar point of the direction you grow toward, at a right angle. The pull forward and the flinch backward keep grinding inside one body. Every stride into the new has cost you a limp through the sore place first, bracing as you advanced. That friction is no flaw in the path. Leaned into, the strain itself files the way forward smooth, so the road you reach was cut against exactly this resistance, rough and dearly won.