By Sharshar

It’s no secret that most of us at some point in our lives have wished we had psychic powers. Haven't you ever wished you could close your eyes, take a deep breath, and see what curveball life is throwing at you next? It sure would make the game easier to play, right?

Most of us are not blessed with the luxury of foresight, or this cheater’s advantage to counter the game of life, so this is where your trusted tarot card reader can come in handy. Your reader can gaze into the cards and give you a little sneak preview of what is to come, and admit it, when the predictions start revealing themselves as realities, it gives you a certain rush of adrenaline. It’s almost like being high on life, except you’re getting your rush from what life will offer in the future, not the present or what has already came to pass. This high can eventually lead to what I call tarot addiction

To most, the occasional, every-now-and-again glimpse into the future is more than enough; however, some go a bit overboard and begin to crave the knowledge of what is to come.

Take my favorite aunt, for instance. A few months ago I was able to spend a delightful week with Aunt Almadine. As eccentric as she may be, she always makes me feel safe and welcome. Spending the night in her old Victorian style home reminds me again of when I was a child. It brings back fond memories of all the late nights I would spend watching, as she spent countless hours flipping a deck of tarot cards back and forth, on a rather old rolltop desk. Even as a child, I though it odd for a woman to literally speak questions to a deck of cards, and then pause as if she expected these little paper squares to magically reply with words of profound wisdom. Though it puzzled me, I guess in many ways they actually did provide answers. 

So on to my recent visit. I was awakened at 5:30 in the morning by the sound of relentless crowing. It sounded like a strong rooster crowing with all his might.  I later discovered this to be a rather annoying alarm clock, Aunt Almadine’s favourite.  Wiping the sleep from my eyes, I stumbled around to see Aunt Almadine hustling through the house in bathrobe and fuzzy pink slippers, her hair wildly sticking up all over her head. Her appearance, combined with the frantic pace of her movements, made her resemble someone who had just escaped the local psych ward. She reached for the phone in desperate need to schedule a tarot reading. Once she heard the familiar voice (that of her long-time tarot reader), assuring her that all would be okay, only then did she breathe a sigh of relief, like a junkie who just had his fix .

I love you, but—news flash, Aunt Almadine—I think they call this tarot addiction.

There must be a group somewhere for this; there are support groups for most everything nowadays. If not, someone really should start one. Something like over- eaters anonymous, except maybe call it, over-readers anonymous?

For those who just can’t live without their daily fix of knowing.