Anelly Aya

It’s barely six in the morning. I’m sitting in the kitchen with a cup of warm coffee, watching the day slowly brighten outside, and thinking about how many times in my life I’ve started over. A new diet, a new regimen, a new Monday. Every single time with the same naive illusion - that if I just change what’s on my plate, everything else in my life will suddenly fall into place. Now, in this silence, something very simple has become clear to me, though it took years to understand: every true change begins in the mind, not in the fridge . The problem was never the calories or a lack of information about which food is healthy. The problem lies in that deep, invisible place inside us, where the real reasons hide for why we reach for that bag of chips or the chocolate at eleven at night. When I really think about it, I rarely eat because my body is actually experiencing biological hunger. We use food as a language to try and say things we don't have words for. Looking back at my child...

  It’s 5:42 AM. Outside, it’s still that peculiar, bluish darkness before the sun even thinks about rising. The room is quiet, but in this silence, the first thing to wake up isn’t my thoughts. It’s my body. Or rather - the pain. It doesn't need an alarm. It simply unfolds in the joints, in the back, under the skin, like a heavy, suffocating blanket pinning me to the mattress. In these first few minutes, the bed isn’t a place of rest; it’s a battlefield. The truth is, physical suffering is the loneliest thing in the world . You can have the most loving people around you, but at five in the morning, when you are hurting, you are absolutely alone in your own shell of skin. No one can carry even a milligram of that sensation for you. For a long time - weeks, maybe months - my first reaction was an endless, maddening question: Why? Why me? What did I do to deserve this? What did I break in my life that made my body decide to retaliate this way? I watched healthy people outside running...

It’s just before six in the morning. It’s still cool in the room, and the light outside is only just starting to find its way through the blinds. There’s this short, strange moment right after waking up where my mind hasn’t yet started scrolling through the to-do list, the worries of the day, or yesterday's memories. In those few seconds, I am just breath, warmth under the covers, a sense of weight on the mattress. Pure existence. Then my head switches on, and the usual noise begins. For a long time, I lived like that - entirely on the top floor of my own body. I had turned into a walking mind that viewed its physical shell simply as some kind of transportation vehicle for the head . The body was supposed to get me from point A to point B, endure eight hours of sitting in front of a computer, not get sick at an inconvenient time, and above all - not get in the way of my productivity. If I was exhausted, I drank another coffee. If something hurt, I took a pill to make it shut up. I ...

Milena had learned the hard way that trust is the most fragile and, at the same time, the bravest investment of the human psyche. For months, she had been living through the brutal sobering after the lie. When the person on whom she had staked her entire tomorrow simply crossed everything out with a light hand, the pain wasn't just about the specific act. We are hurt by the entire collapse of our perception of the world, she thought to herself. For Milena, this betrayal turned into a true ontological collapse - suddenly her reality split into two incompatible halves: "before" and "after." In those first weeks, her mind resembled a 24-hour courtroom. She replayed the tape of her memories endlessly - every conversation, every look, every delay. She asked herself: Where did I go wrong? How did I not feel anything? Was I really that blind? There was nothing spiritual or elevated in this phase. There was only anger, a dry throat, and that dull, physical ache in he...

  The morning arrives so quietly today. Sitting here with my cup of coffee, watching the light slowly creep through the window, I can't help but think about how loss changes everything without even asking. It just invades your life, closes a door, and leaves you in a room that's supposed to be the same, but where everything suddenly looks unfamiliar. What seemed certain and guaranteed until yesterday suddenly turns out to be as fragile as glass. I used to think grief was just pain. That it hurts when someone leaves, when an important relationship falls apart, or when you lose your health, your security, your dreams. And yes, it hurts physically—you feel it in your throat, in your chest, like a weight that won't let you breathe normally. But lately, sitting in this silence, I've been thinking that something else is happening beneath the surface of the pain. It's as if something deep inside me that was asleep is slowly beginning to wake up. This awakening doesn't...

  May 17, 2026 I didn't sleep well again last night. I woke up around five in the morning, just before sunrise. The room is chilly, the window is cracked open a bit, and it smells like wet earth and the oncoming day. In moments like this, when the whole world is still asleep, it gets too quiet. Around me and inside me. The chaotic rush of the daytime - the one we hide in so easily - is gone, and you’re left completely alone with yourself. Stripped bare. I stare into the dark and think about what fools we can be sometimes. For years, we can live inside these made-up, comfortable worlds. We decorate our wounds with beautiful words, calling the fear of loneliness "a great love," toxic attachment "destiny," and total isolation "a spiritual quest." It’s amazing how long a person can remain faithful to their own naivety. And it’s not because we are stupid or don’t understand what’s happening. We just desperately want there to be hope. Naivety is exactly that...

  June 15. Before Sunrise. The light at this hour is a mere insinuation, a faint, grey luminescence that slowly dissolves the silhouettes of the objects in the room. Everything is still. My breathing is the only rhythm connecting me to the world, yet even it carries the heavy weight of transition. There are moments in life—long, endlessly settling moments—when you feel like a vessel that has been sealed for far too too long. A fermenting, ripening state. Psychoanalysis would call this condition resistance, a defense mechanism, a cocoon meticulously woven by the ego to protect itself from the disintegration of the familiar. The soul, however, experiences it as a pregnancy whose term is expiring. A silence in which a cry is being born. For a long time, I believed that safety was the ultimate good. That remaining within the enclosed, warm space of my old habits, familiar pains, and comforting illusions was an act of self-preservation. The psyche is a brilliant architect of shelters. I...

      The hour when the night has not yet departed, and the day is but a pale, bluish promise along the edge of the horizon, always carries a sense of naked truth. I sit in the silence of this early room, as the first rays of sunlight pierce the glass like thin, luminous fingers, and I think about touch. About those completely mundane, almost automatic gestures we exchange out of habit, never suspecting that within them lies encoded the entire metaphysics of our existence. We say: Give me five . We say it with ease, with a smile, sometimes in passing, while rushing somewhere, locked within our own tiny, isolated worlds. But what does this truly represent, if we strip away the layer of daily banality? What happens in that microsecond when two palms meet in the air and press against each other? This is a merging . In a psychoanalytic sense, the touching of palms is our first persistent attempt to overlap the boundaries of the Ego, which we so zealously guard the rest of the...

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  Elitsa stood by the window, watching the morning light glide across the bark of the trees — that old, cracked bark that resembled the hands of elderly people who had survived more winters than could ever be spoken of. The air smelled of dust and damp soil, and in the distance came the metallic sound of chainsaws, slicing through the silence like a harsh thought intruding upon a prayer. Even before she saw what was happening, her body understood. There are pains that arrive before words do. Pains that live in the nerves, in the chest, in the deep memory of the soul. They had begun cutting the trees. Large. Old trees. She remembered how, as a child, she believed that trees kept human secrets. That they listened. That they absorbed what a person could not confess to anyone else. Her mother had once told her that when someone cried beside a tree, the tears were never wasted. And perhaps that was why Elitsa had always felt a particular silence around old trees — not an empty silenc...

  The night is silent—the kind of silence that isn’t merely an absence of sound, but a presence: a dense, pulsating matter that presses against my temples and forces me to listen to my own breathing as if it were a foreign body. I write this in the hour when the light has not yet decided whether to be born or to remain forever in the womb of darkness. There are periods in our lives when everything scatters , when the boundaries of our familiar "self" begin to erode, much like riverbanks washed away by a surging current. This is not just a crisis; it is an ontological decay where our old identifications, the masks we have worn with such diligence, and the ego structures that gave us a false sense of security begin to break into their constituent parts. In a psychoanalytic sense, this is the moment of disintegration necessary for any true transformation. For the new to emerge, the old must lose its form, turn to dust, and disperse into space, leaving us naked and vulnerable bef...

    April 15. The night has frozen into that peculiar, almost prayerful silence where the walls of the room cease to be boundaries and become membranes through which existence itself pulses. I sit here, before the white page, feeling a realization settle in my chest—a knowledge that for a long time was merely a fleeting breeze, a vague longing, or an undefined anxiety. I am speaking of the structure beneath the surface , that invisible scaffolding upon which we stretch our days without ever naming it. Most of us pass through life as if through a dream, where the scenery appears solid and final, but in hours like this—when the ego falls asleep and a rift opens toward the infinite—it becomes clear that nothing is as it seems. There exists a web, a vast, dynamic, and living fabric that I call the Matrix of the World . And no, it is not that digital prison from the movies, nor is it the product of some malicious conspiracy. It is something much deeper, finer, and mo...