Every part of you wants to sprint, and the ankle reminds you it needs three days of plain walking before any race. Mars sits at one pole with the urge to go now, Saturn at the opposite with the discipline that makes you wait. Start, and a hard voice docks you for not holding back. Hold back, and you burn inside while the window slides shut. So you blow up after gripping it too long, then slam the brakes right when the road was finally clear. In the end you cut a deal with your own body. Patience, spent well, multiplies the force when it lands. Force with no patience snaps the bone. Neither pole is the enemy here.