Anelly Aya's blog

The night has its own kind of silence — not the hollow kind that echoes like an empty room, but the thick, breathing silence that settles gently on the soul, like dew on a forgotten leaf. In these quiet hours, when the world softens into shadow and time no longer rushes, questions begin to rise from the depths like whispers from a hidden well. Questions that the daylight is too loud to hear. Why is it so easy to spend on the exterior… and so hard to give anything to what lives within? People spend money on nails polished to perfection, on hair smoothed and styled to disguise the exhaustion behind their eyes, on clothes that shimmer under artificial lights, on cigarettes that turn their breath into smoke. There is almost a ritualistic devotion to the exterior — as though the surface were an altar and everything else a footnote. Day after day, layer after layer, they tend to the image in the mirror while the soul waits in the dark , quiet, patient, unseen. It isn’t about the nails, or ...

  Sometimes the word “forgiveness” sounds like a distant bell, not rung by a human hand but by the sky itself — a sound that slides along the bones and returns to the heart as a memory of something we once understood but can no longer name. There isn’t always someone to forgive. Not because we are above it, not because we are holier or wiser, but because there is simply no one there. Only an absence, a silence, a tear in the fabric of the human. And then forgiveness becomes not an act, but a stillness — a refusal to touch what is already dead, what cannot be revived by kindness. I often think of those who have sinned deliberately , with cold precision, with carefully measured lies. They do not seek forgiveness because they do not believe in the soul, nor in holiness, nor in anything that cannot be used. And when you stand before such a world, you feel not merely deceived — you feel unseen , reduced to an object, a stage upon which another’s shadow has rehearsed the role of God. ...

  И тогава започваш да различаваш — не със сърцето, което вече е уморено от обяснения, а с очите на душата, които са се отучили да вярват в лицата. Те гледат отвъд думите, отвъд оправданията, отвъд онази крехка човешка нужда да виждаш добро във всичко. Започваш да различаваш две бездни, които външно си приличат, но вътре звучат различно. Едната — мека, мътна, човешка — е бездната на неведението. Там хората грешат не защото искат да наранят, а защото не могат да понесат собствената си отговорност. Там има страх, слабост, слепота. Там някой извръща поглед не от злонамерие, а от липса на зрялост да гледа. Там предателството понякога е просто неспособност да останеш верен, не защото не искаш, а защото не знаеш как. Там хората се поддават, водени от чужди думи, от натиск, от страх да не изгубят мястото си. Там има нещо от онзи Пилат Понтийски, който не е звяр, а страхлив чиновник на злото, един, който не може да застане изцяло нито от страната на истината, нито на лъжата. Това е злото н...

  Седя до прозореца, докато последната светлина на деня се разлива и се сгъва в себе си като внимателна молитва, и наблюдавам как мракът се спуска бавно по стените на стаята, докосвайки всеки ъгъл с мекота и тишина. Свещта трепти, пламъкът ѝ колебливо се отразява върху стъклото, и аз мисля за огледалата, тези, които носим вътре в себе си, тези, които виждаме в другите, и тези, които упорито отказват да бъдат цели. Всяко отражение носи пукнатини, макар понякога да се преструваме, че повърхността е гладка. Виждам собственото си лице в огледалото, но то не е изцяло мое; то е пречупено от спомени, от желания, от тайните начини, по които се навеждам към света, надявайки се да бъда видяна, и страхувайки се от пукнатините, които ще ме издадат. Мисля за това как всички ние сме огледала едни за други. Не за съвършените, полираните огледала, които показват яснота и спокойствие, а за огледалата, които носят отпечатъците на нашите истории, прахта на разочарованията, леките изкривявания на недо...

  I sit here in the quiet, the room dimly lit by a single candle whose flame trembles against the shadows that gather in the corners, and I realize that scarcity is not only a matter of the body but of the soul , a delicate hollow that presses against the ribs like a whispered prayer for sustenance, for light, for something that will not vanish the moment I reach toward it. The wind moves outside with a soft persistence, brushing the bare branches against the windowpane, and I am reminded that even in absence, there is a rhythm, a pulse that continues, indifferent and sacred, in its quiet insistence that we breathe. I breathe, slowly, almost reluctantly, and I feel the weight of this world that asks me to survive, to gather the scattered remnants of a life that seems always just beyond the reach of my hands. To live in scarcity is to learn how to measure hope with trembling fingers , how to watch the small things — a crust of bread, a drop of water, the faint warmth of sunlight —...

  There comes a moment when holding on becomes heavier than loss itself. It doesn’t happen all at once — it’s a slow unthreading, like the quiet unraveling of a fabric long worn by love. One morning, you wake and realize the ache has softened; not because it disappeared, but because something inside you finally stopped resisting. Letting go is not an act of forgetting — it is the gentle art of remembering differently. It is learning to see what was beautiful without needing to keep it. For a long time, I believed that release meant abandonment — that to move on was to erase. But now I see that letting go is a kind of reverence. It is saying to the past: thank you for shaping me; I will carry your echo, but not your weight. There is grace in allowing something to end, even when your heart is still reaching for the familiar shape of what once was. Every ending holds the whisper of a beginning, though at first it sounds like silence. Grief is simply love changing its form. It does ...

  There is a kind of love that never learns how to speak. It lingers between glances, in pauses too long to be casual, in words softened at the edge of courage. I have carried such love — quiet, unclaimed, yet vast enough to alter the gravity of my days. It was never a confession, only a constant presence, like a candle burning in a locked room, unseen but consuming itself all the same. Sometimes I wonder if silence is the purest form of devotion, or if it is merely fear dressed in tenderness. Unspoken love has its own language. It lives in the small gestures we pretend not to notice — the way two people hesitate before parting, the way laughter hides a tremor, the way the heart leans forward though the body remains still. There were moments when I felt your nearness like breath against glass — so close that a single word might have shattered everything. I think that is what held me back: the knowledge that to speak would mean to lose the fragile perfection of what existed in the ...

The Paradox of Connection from “Connected Yet Alone: Technology and the New Sense of Belonging”    Throughout human history, connection has been far more than a simple act of communication. It has been the very fabric through which existence unfolds — the invisible current that unites life in its countless expressions. To be connected is to recognize oneself within the other , to sense the echo of one’s own being in the faces, voices, and hearts that share the same fragile reality. Connection is not merely an exchange of words or gestures; it is the pulse of consciousness seeking reflection , a living bridge between the isolated self and the infinite whole. From the earliest tribal gatherings to the quiet intimacy of shared silence, humanity has always depended on the web of relation. Around the ancient fire, people told stories, sang songs, and gazed at the stars together, forming bonds that transcended survival. The flame illuminated more than faces; it illuminated belon...

  The city of the future has been promised to us as a place of freedom, efficiency, and endless opportunity. Shining towers, self-driving vehicles, responsive infrastructure, and networks that anticipate our every need. Yet beneath the glossy marketing campaigns and hopeful visions of progress, another truth emerges: the digital city may not be a utopia of convenience and liberation but a prison without walls  - a place where surveillance, control, and algorithmic governance dictate the boundaries of daily life. What makes this prison unique is its invisibility. Unlike the physical walls of ancient fortresses or the steel bars of modern jails, the digital city confines its inhabitants through data, algorithms, and connectivity. The systems designed to optimize urban life collect information on every movement, transaction, and interaction. At first, this seems harmless or even beneficial. Cameras help reduce crime. Smart cards make transportation easier. Digital IDs streamlin...