Someone hands you a tidy answer to a large question and you feel your shoulders go up, a quiet allergy to anyone selling meaning as a finished product. You were born with Chiron in Sagittarius, and the centaur in the myth taught from a wound that never healed, not despite it. Yours sits at meaning itself, at whether the bigger story you reach for can hold your weight. Somewhere early faith came with a fracture: a tradition that closed its door when you asked the real question, an authority that called obedience wisdom, a horizon that turned out smaller than its promise. So you keep one foot out of every belief, you distrust certainty on principle, you sometimes wander to avoid committing to a meaning that might let you down again. Jupiter runs wide through this ground. What snags you is mistaking that wariness for wisdom, when it can quietly become a refusal to land anywhere. The wound holds its teaching: you know exactly how it feels to be disappointed by an answer you trusted, which makes you the one who can teach another person to keep asking. You get to believe again on your own terms. Keep seeking without pretending you have arrived. The honest map was always the one with a margin left open.