You run on dissolution — of boundaries, categories, the line between what is and what could be. Music does things to you that alarm bystanders. You feel your way to truths that logic reaches a year later, out of breath.
The cost is fog. Absorbing everything means carrying things that were never yours, and the dream can become a place to hide from the invoice, the deadline, the difficult Tuesday. Escape and transcendence run on the same fuel.
Neptune rules the ocean, and nobody firms up an ocean — you navigate it. The practice is anchoring: one routine, one honest friend, one foot on the dock. Moored, your imagination stops being a leak and becomes the harbor everyone else visits to remember what depth feels like.