In the lugubrious depths of this platform, where numbers writhe like souls in agony, moving averages appear like invisible ropes that strangle or sustain the market's ephemeral breath. Each candle pulsing on the chart is a heartbeat of a body that already knows that one day it will rot. The averages, cold and impassive, are the scars of time marked on the ever-renewed corpse of the price.
The simple moving average is an epitaph in the making, drawn with the morbid precision of an executioner. It distinguishes neither peaks of glory nor valleys of despair; it is the scalpel of the inevitable, leveling everything with the indifference of someone who knows that, in the end, everything is dust. Each point on the graph that it crosses is a stifled sigh, a fragment of history that already belongs to the realm of the forgotten.
The exponential moving average is the embodiment of greed, devouring the present with the insatiable hunger of a worm on freshly buried flesh. Its weight rests on recent moments, like a tombstone sinking into the earth. It is the specter of the now, a reminder that the past, however haunted, cannot escape the insidious influence of what has just happened.
The crossings of these lines are macabre rituals, funeral dances in which the fate of the market is decided. When the short-term line crosses above, the trader sees promise, an illusory light in the dark chamber of uncertainty. But when it drops, like a vulture swooping down on a fresh corpse, despair is inevitable. These crossings are not just movements; they are the slashes of invisible claws, tearing at the fabric of what could be.
There is, however, something beautiful in the morbidity of these lines. They are the whisper of fate to those who dare to listen. As the charts flicker on the screen, the averages show that even in the chaos, there is a dark pattern that governs. They do not promise salvation, but they guide the viewer through the crypts of the market, pointing out where the ghosts of opportunity and the demons of ruin lurk.
The trader, when observing them, is like a necromancer trying to extract secrets from the dead. Every decision based on these lines is a pact with the unknown, a bet made against the clock that marks the putrefaction of all things.
