
The Moon meets Ketu in silence. A strange stillness enters the heart. Emotions no longer flow with ease. They flicker, ghostlike, distant and dim. What once felt alive feels hollow. The world appears blurred and unreal. We move through scenes, not moments. Everything is near, yet far away.
This is not sorrow, not exactly. It’s a drifting, a quiet fading. The thread of connection feels frayed. The heart folds in on itself. There’s a fear of closeness now. Intimacy feels too sharp, too near. So we observe instead of engage. The self becomes a distant figure. Memories dissolve, and feelings blur.
The body carries what words cannot. Sleep thins, no longer deep or kind. The stomach tightens with quiet distress. Muscles ache without reason or warning. There is disorientation that resists naming. The mind spins while the spirit floats. We seek grounding, but nothing holds. The past keeps tugging, soft but firm.
Ketu is not cruel—just cold. It detaches, not to punish, but release. Yet, the detachment wounds before it frees. It asks us to surrender identity. To let go of the familiar warmth. This surrender frightens the Moon’s softness. It trembles before letting go.
Healing does not demand solutions—only presence. We sit in the quiet ache. We allow the numbness to speak. We reach for something still and real. The touch of wind, a breath. The hum of a tree nearby. Nature reminds us we still exist. Meditation creates space to feel again.
To reconcile Moon and Ketu takes time. A slow rebuilding of unseen bridges. We do not rush the return. We listen for feeling’s faint echo. And one day, without warning, it stirs. A fragile peace returns like a whisper. Not full, not whole—but deeply true.
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