Jyeshtha Mercury = You hear voices. They hear you back

Mercury in Jyeshtha is not loud. It whispers. The thoughts that come aren’t always your own. They drift in like fog—quiet, strange, insistent. This isn’t about regular thinking or speaking. It’s something deeper. A kind of communication that doesn’t need words’. It feels like you’ve tuned into a frequency others don’t hear. Or maybe won’t admit they hear.

There’s a loneliness to it. Like talking to the stars and wondering if they ever answer back. But sometimes, they do. A sudden image. A voice just before sleep. Static that forms meaning. Something—someone—responds. You speak into silence and it replies. Not always clearly. Not always kindly. But you’re not alone in the way you thought.

Jyeshtha brings weight. It’s the elder star. It knows things. Things people don’t want to remember. Mercury here makes your mind sharp, but haunted. You’re drawn to what’s hidden. Old books. Faded maps. Stories about beings from elsewhere. Not for entertainment, but because they ring true in a way nothing else does. You read between the lines. You hear what others miss.

There’s often a strange childhood. Unnamed fears. Friends no one else saw. A sense that the world isn’t what it seems. That feeling never really goes away. It grows quieter, maybe. But deeper. You notice things. Shifts in energy. Eyes in empty rooms. Devices acting up for no reason. People laugh it off. You don’t.

This Mercury doesn’t speak to impress. It listens. Watches. It knows that real messages come in odd shapes. Symbols. Accidents. Dreams that feel like warnings. Or memories from someone else’s life. You write them down. You search for patterns. You wonder if you’re meant to do something with them. But no one ever tells you what.

There’s a strange kind of faith in all this. Not in gods. In signals. In the idea that something beyond this world is reaching out. Testing the line. Seeing who’s still paying attention. You are. Even when it hurts. Even when it isolates you. You can’t turn it off.

Mercury in Jyeshtha is an open channel. It pulls you toward the strange, the sacred, the stars. You aren’t just receiving. You’re transmitting too. Your thoughts drift out like flares. Maybe someone’s catching them. Maybe that’s what the voices are. Echoes. Or answers. You keep listening anyway.

Because deep down, you know this isn’t all there is.