She is not the moon.
She is what teaches the moon how to return.
In the high, cold quiet of the stars,
where time forgets to count itself,
she spins her silver wheel.
Not for fate.
Not for men.
But for the slow becoming of souls.
Arianrhod,
whose name tastes like starlight and iron,
whose castle turns in the sky
while the world below sleeps and forgets its own magic.
They called her cold.
They called her distant.
They called her cruel
because she would not bend,
would not soften,
would not break herself into something smaller
just to be easier to love.
But they did not understand sky-women.
They did not understand women who belong to themselves.
She is the keeper of cycles,
the quiet law of return,
the promise that nothing truly lost
stays lost forever.
Stars are her language.
Wheels are her promise.
The sea knows her name
and repeats it in tides.
If you stand at the edge of your life
and feel the old world crumbling beneath you,
if you feel exiled from who you were,
if you feel the long turning of something you cannot yet see,
that is her wheel.
Still turning.
Still patient.
Still saying:
You are not lost.
You are becoming.