You reach out to greet the world and an old wound drags the gesture crosswise. That pull, repeated, has built the whole way you arrive. Chiron, the centaur hauling an arrow that never closed and never a planet with mass, crosses your rising horizon at a right angle, so the face that meets people and the sore spot that flinches keep fouling each other at the door. You have paid for stepping forward while a part of you braced for the blow, for offering a hand with the cut still open. That grinding has carved a manner no untouched person could fake. Your way of meeting others, edged and unmistakably real, was laid down brick by brick against exactly this.