Ketu dasha = You’re less “here.” More “elsewhere.”

Ketu Dasha feels like fading. Like slowly stepping out of focus. The world goes on. But you begin to drift. Not far. Just enough to notice the silence grow louder. You hear less. But feel more. Not emotions—something beneath them. A hum. A pull. A thinning of what used to hold you here.

You forget names. You forget why things mattered. Your calendar becomes fog. The clock moves, but you don’t. There’s no urgency. No desire to catch up. You don’t want more. You want less. Less noise. Less talk. Less self. It’s not sadness. It’s surrender. Like laying down your name and watching it dissolve.

Ketu doesn’t break things. It lets them fall away. What stays is what was always true. Not your job. Not your plans. Something quieter. The core behind the costume. You don’t know what to do with it at first. There’s no instruction. No map. Just space. And the sense that you’ve been here before.

People ask what’s wrong. You smile, unsure. Words feel too heavy now. You want silence. Want sky. Want stillness that breathes back. Alien contact astrology says this is when your signal clears. The static dies down. You become sensitive to what isn’t seen. What isn’t loud. What arrives only when you stop looking.

Dreams become vivid. Or strange. Or both. You see symbols that feel ancient. Lights that don’t speak but still say something. You don’t know if it’s memory or message. But you feel it matters. Some dreams linger for days. Like you didn’t fully wake up. Like you brought something back with you.

The body changes. Sometimes tired. Sometimes wired. You feel pressure in your chest. In your hands. Your spine buzzes. Nothing shows up on scans. But it’s real. You know it. This is the subtle body waking. The spiritual system adjusting. You feel light, but also fragile. Like a mirror with hairline cracks.

You begin to enjoy being alone. Not in loneliness. In relief. There’s no pressure in solitude. No pretending. You can finally listen. To your thoughts. To the silence. To what floats between. You start to notice patterns. Strange timings. Things that shouldn’t align, but do. Coincidences too sharp to ignore.

Ketu brings a kind of haunting. But it’s soft. It’s like a memory from another life brushing past you. It leaves no mark, just a feeling. That you’re not only human. That part of you remembers the stars. You stop chasing answers. You begin to receive them. Not in language. In sensation. In knowing.

Your past doesn’t grip you the same. It loosens. Old pain fades, not by healing, but by vanishing. As if it was never fully yours. What’s left is quiet. Is bare. But not empty. Ketu is not here to destroy. It’s here to clear the way. For contact. For peace. For remembrance.

You sense eyes in dreams. Hear things when nothing makes a sound. Feel watched, not with fear, but with recognition. Alien contact here is subtle. It slips in sideways. Through flickers. Through timing. Through stillness. It’s not a moment—it’s a mood. A shift in tone. A pause that stretches wide.

Ketu Dasha is the long goodbye to everything false. To everything loud. It leaves you with less, but somehow that’s more. More space to feel what’s real. More silence to hear what calls. And in that quiet, something responds. Something vast. Ancient. Not quite human. But somehow known.