The ancients would have said it is the sky itself. But if you look carefully, you will see that the sky is not the centre — the rhythm is. Long before charts, houses, signs, or interpretations existed, human beings stood facing the eastern horizon and watched the same cosmic gesture repeat every year. The Sun rose along the Sphinx’s gaze. Regulus returned to the same place. Light appeared in the same direction. And from that repetition, meaning was born. The centre of astrology has always been the yearly cosmic clock — the return of the Sun to Regulus and the return of illumination to the same fixed point in space. Everything else in astrology is variation.

The Sphinx looks east because east is the direction where consciousness appears each day. When the Sun rises, the world becomes visible. When Regulus rises just before it, we are reminded that insight always precedes illumination — clarity arrives before thought, just as the star arrives before the Sun. This yearly cycle is not symbolic. It is written into the mechanics of spacetime. The Sun returns to Regulus once every year. The alignment between star and horizon repeats with a precision that predates civilisation. That recurrence is the true heart of astrology. It is the metronome of the universe, beating once every 365 days, telling us that existence itself is cyclical, not linear.

Everything in astrology is built on this single rhythm. The planets move, but the Sun’s return defines the year. The Moon moves, but its phases only make sense against the solar cycle. Precession slowly shifts the constellations, but the rhythm remains untouched. Astrology begins from this universal centre: the annual conversation between star, Sun, and horizon. It is the one thing every human on Earth shares — the cycle of light returning to the same cosmic point, the same inner pulse of awake and asleep. The Sphinx was carved to watch that point. Humans evolved to orient their minds to that movement. It is the most ancient alignment between awareness and the universe — our visual reference for how the cosmos speaks in cycles. Once a year, when the star Regulus rises just as the Sun meets the horizon, the Sphinx faces them both in a single line of sight. All other mornings, the star appears slightly before or after, to the left or to the right. Only once does the rhythm lock into its perfect axis.

But if this yearly clock is the centre, why do astrological charts differ so dramatically from person to person? Why does one life unfold inwardly while another spreads outwardly? Why does one chart reflect discipline while another reflects freedom? The answer is simple: the centre is fixed, but every life approaches it from a different angle. Astrology becomes personal the moment you add three variables — date one is born, time, and location. These three measurements determine the exact configuration of the sky at the instant awareness enters a body. They tell us which sign rose in the east at that moment, which planets crossed the horizon, where the Moon was, what the angles were, and how the great cosmic clock imprinted itself on a particular mind.

The Regulus cycle is the constant. The personal chart is the variation. The universal clock sets the background. The birth moment provides the foreground. Without the yearly clock, astrology has no anchor. Without the birth moment, it has no meaning. You could say that Regulus and the Sun are the cosmic heartbeat, and the birth chart is the individual’s pulse within it. The fixed star gives the rhythm; the birth moment gives the signature.

This is why astrology is not really about prediction. It is about orientation. The sky mirrors the structure of the brain-mind. The yearly cosmic clock shows the universal rhythm of awakening; the birth chart shows how each individual participates in that rhythm. When consciousness rises in a quiet human mind, it mirrors the way the Sun rises each morning. When insight arrives before thought, it mirrors the way Regulus rises before the Sun. When clarity returns after a long period of confusion, it mirrors the return of the star to the same horizon each year. The outer sky becomes a map of the inner movement. What changes from one person to another is simply the angle from which their awareness joins that universal motion.

So the centre of astrology is not the zodiac, not the planets, not even the interpretation. It is the fixed rhythm of the universe — the yearly return of illumination to the same place. The Sphinx was carved to watch that place. The mind awakens through the same direction. And astrology becomes possible only because this cosmic pulse repeats with such precision that the human psyche can lock onto it. The variations of birth — the date, the time, the location — simply shape how each person meets that rhythm and how they will unfold within it.

At the centre of astrology is the yearly cosmic clock of Regulus rising before the Sun. Around it spins the endless diversity of human experience, depending on date, time and where they were born. Through it, the mind sees that it is not separate from the universe at all. It is aligned with a rhythm that has been beating long before humans opened their eyes and will continue long after the mind disappears back into silence.

There is one more layer that belongs to the yearly clock of Regulus — the rare moment when a human being is born with Regulus rising on their eastern horizon. The Ascendant is the personal Sphinx, the private point where awareness enters the world. When Regulus sits on that axis at the moment of birth, the individual inherits a direct alignment with the cosmic rhythm itself. Their life becomes a bridge between inner illumination and outer visibility, between insight and expression, between the silent centre of the mind and the movement of the world. It is not a mark of power but a mark of orientation — a life lived facing the same direction as the universe’s own cycle of awakening. The yearly return of Regulus becomes, for such a person, not just a celestial event but a reminder of their place within the fabric of the cosmos: aligned, attentive, and born along the same axis the ancient Sphinx has watched for thousands of years.

Just remember this: Donald Trump was born with Regulus on the Ascendant, the star lifting over the eastern horizon as he entered the world — a rare alignment that marks a life lived in full visibility. You can see why he is this as he works across the whole world in his time in office.

Astrology has its technical truths, and then it has the reactions those truths provoke. One of the clearest examples is Donald Trump’s Regulus Ascendant. The data is simple: at the moment of his birth, at the exact time and location, the star Regulus — the ancient “Heart of the Lion” — was rising on the eastern horizon. In classical astrology this is one of the rarest alignments a person can have, a signature that marks a life lived in full visibility. Yet whenever astrologers describe it, something curious happens. Instead of leaving the interpretation to stand on its own, they immediately begin qualifying it with personal opinions, political judgments, or emotional disclaimers. The astrology becomes secondary to the astrologer’s feelings. The fact of Regulus on the Ascendant is clear; the reaction to it is what becomes complicated.

The fact remains simple. At the moment of his birth, Regulus rose in the east, entering his first house and imprinting his life with a signature of prominence. Everything else — the praise, the criticism, the interpretations — arises from the human mind, not from the star. Astrology describes the pattern. People describe their reactions to it. To see the sky cleanly is to recognise that symbolism does not take sides. It simply expresses itself through the lives capable of carrying it, and those lives do not come wrapped in moral guarantees. They come wrapped in visibility.

Trump’s Regulus Ascendant is, first and last, an astrological fact. The emotions surrounding it belong to the world watching him. In that sense, the star’s symbolism is fulfilled: the individual becomes the mirror, and the age sees itself reflected in the gaze.

Astrologically, the remainder of Trump’s term unfolds during one of those rare historical windows when Pluto, Uranus, and Saturn converge in pressure on the world stage, forcing a structural reconfiguration that no society can bypass. It is a cycle that breaks down what has hardened, reveals what can no longer carry its own weight, and clears the ground for whatever must replace it. In such periods the collective unconsciously gathers its tensions around a single visible figure, and because Trump was born with Regulus rising — the ancient signature of prominence, disruption, and epochal visibility — he becomes the face through which this purification of the old and emergence of the new seems to move. The transformation does not originate from him; rather, the era expresses its shift through him, using his visibility as the mirror in which the world confronts its own turning.