Anelly Aya's blog

  Sometimes it seems to me that the real crises in my life—especially the financial ones, those moments of tightening, of inexplicable scarcity, of anxiety that digs into my ribs—do not come from external circumstances but from a displacement of my inner rhythm. I write this in the quiet of dusk, as the daylight slowly withdraws from the windows and the room fills with that particular darkness that doesn’t frighten but instead invites honesty. In this half-light, I begin to see more clearly what I avoid during the day: that every time I force myself to act against my own inner “seasonality,” some form of loss emerges—and often it manifests exactly as financial emptiness, as a halt in the flow, as a symbolic sign that I have separated myself from the natural spring of life. The more I reflect on this, the more clearly I realize that for me money has never been just numbers or exchange value. I’ve always felt it as energy, as an external indicator of internal order. And when that or...

  It was November 21st, the Day of the Christian Family — that bright yet gentle holiday that carries a feeling of inner gathering, of invisible kinship, of a home not built from walls but from presences. The afternoon was calm, slightly tired, and I — even more tired. My eyes were burning after long hours in front of the computer; my gaze had begun to see the world as a flat screen, and my thoughts moved heavily, uncertainly, as if someone had locked them into a narrow space. And so — more out of inertia than desire — I decided to go out for a walk. I needed to unwind, to air out my mind, to let my eyes touch real light, not the bluish glow of the monitor. I wasn’t expecting much. I simply followed the familiar path through the neighborhood, the way one sometimes follows one’s own breathing — quietly, without a plan, hoping that something inside will fall into place. And then, almost imperceptibly, a feeling arose in me — the sense of something inexplicable, something approaching...

  Sometimes the night greets me with a strange sensation — not so much pain as a question , one that slips into the periphery of my thoughts like a light unsure of whether it wishes to remain. After every disappointment there arrives this moment: the moment when you no longer ask “Why did it happen?” but begin to listen to a quieter, almost prayerful inner register: “How can it not happen again?” Not as self-blame. Not as fear of falling once more. But as the desire to learn to love without breaking apart, without turning love into a field where your own shadows outweigh the light. I write these lines as if in a diary, though I’m not entirely sure whether I’m speaking to myself, to time, or to that invisible presence I sometimes call soul , sometimes God , and sometimes simply my own inner ground . Here I want to gather not rules, but orientations; not boundaries, but supports; not prohibitions, but quiet, almost invisible paths toward maturity. Paths that do not reject the myst...

  I want to share this not as a confession, but as a quiet offering to those who have once been lost in the same narrow fissure between the inner and the outer, between love and illusion, between belief and self-deception. I write it for anyone who has been swept away by signs, coincidences, dreams, inner “voices” that seem like whispers of fate, but lead to a place you later realize… was more your own pain than a divine message. I write it because no one speaks of this clearly enough: you can be completely sane and still have the world think you are mad. You can be completely honest and still be rejected as deceived. You can love deeply and still have your love appear as illusion to others. And it tears you apart. I want to say to anyone currently going through such an experience — you are not alone. You are not sick. And your sensitivity is not a defect; it is simply a place where the boundaries between worlds are thinner. When we fall in love with that peculiar, mystic...

  Sometimes I feel as if I live on the border between two realities — the inner one, which expands like a breath, and the outer one, which at times seems like an extension of my thoughts, and at other times like their mirror, distorted by an invisible hand. And I find myself asking: how much of what I see is the world, and how much is projection? Because there are days when everything outside speaks to me — not in words, but in hints, in coincidences, in quiet reflections that resemble signs. And that’s when the strange blending begins — the inner spills outward like fog, and the outer enters me like a memory that doesn’t belong to me. Sometimes it’s beautiful. Sometimes it’s dangerous. I’ve long known that the mind can create worlds, fill them with intuitions, with promises, with images of the future that sound like revelations. And how easy it is to believe that all of this is real — that your thoughts have weight, that your attention makes the world more obedient, that the un...

  And sometimes I feel that the inner reality and the outer reality merge so smoothly and so treacherously that I stop distinguishing where thought ends and the world begins; and this merging is at once a blessing and a danger, because in this flow of constant interaction one begins to make happen with one’s thoughts that which one has fantasized to believe — and it acquires form, substance, eventfulness, movement. Yet in this process there is a delicate moment of mismatch, a fleeting instant in which the outer has not yet caught up with the inner, in which the seed of thought is sown, but the earth has not fully received it, and then comes that quiet, painful rupture — unfulfillment, non-occurrence, a peculiar shifting of the horizon, which creates the space for the cleverest form of self-deception: to believe that one is already seeing the manifestation, while in fact one is looking at the reflection of one’s own desire, cast onto the canvas of reality as shadow, not light. And t...

  Sometimes it seems to me that synchronicities don’t come to me as pure signs, but as reflections in water that someone has deliberately stirred — water in which both desire and fear are mirrored, along with that deep, unprocessed unconscious that breathes timidly in the corners of every thought. I write this entry in the quiet of an evening where the shadows on the wall look like traces of parallel realities I keep slipping between, without being certain which one is true, which is a trap, which is merely a projection of what I long to see as a path — yet what may actually be proliferated desire, producing signs that soothe, lure, seduce. For a long time I’ve sensed that the subconscious possesses an endless artistry for creating signs that look as if they were emitted by some invisible divinity, yet are really just fragments of my strongest longings, gathered together, stitched with threads of forgetfulness, and projected onto the world’s wall like mystical directions. I have o...

  Sometimes I think our society resembles a vast ship built on several levels — each floor with its own light, its own darkness, its own illusions of safety. The layers of our society reveal different destinies, different masks, different wounds stretched along the social ladder like unspoken truths. And when a collective crisis comes — usually financial, though not only — I begin to sense a strange tilting, a quiet, almost imperceptible shift of weight. As if the Titanic of our shared fate begins to lean, and the water starts flooding the lowest decks, where people are most vulnerable, closest to the cold bottom, to the first line of disaster. And I see in this not just a social mechanism, but the illness of a single shared organism — a painful reminder of how our collective body suffers when balance is broken. Just as in the human psyche, so in society — when some parts are neglected, when some voices are suppressed, a symptom inevitably appears. Psychoanalysis would say that th...

  Sometimes, in those early mornings when the light is still hesitant, unsure whether it wants to be born upon the horizon, a strange sensation arises within me — as if an ancient geometry is encoded in the silence itself, a kind of breathing that belongs neither to me nor to the world around me, but to something deeper, more encompassing. And then I remember the Seed of Life, that first circle, that first pulsation, that first reminder that existence begins not with form but with an impulse — with a yearning to unfold, to multiply, to create. I have carried this teaching within me for a long time — perhaps even before I encountered it as words, as knowledge. The teaching of Melchizedek is not merely a philosophy; I feel it as a quiet movement inside me, an inner alignment that happens in moments of revelation rather than moments of thinking. It reminds me that every form is a consequence of an inner decision — a decision of consciousness to be, to express itself, to create a stru...

  Sometimes, when I stand motionless before the sunrise, I feel something that is difficult to put into words without losing its delicacy. A quiet certainty — not an idea, not a doctrine, but an experience — that the Sun does not simply belong to God, but is His direct appearance, His finest, most accessible manifestation for our senses. It is not a symbol — symbols are replaceable. It is a manifestation, the kind of presence that requires no proof because it is felt like breath, like an impulse inside the body itself. And sometimes I think that if God could incarnate in the simplest, purest form of matter, He would choose light — its transparency, its inexhaustible generosity, its ability to reveal and to heal at the same time. In such moments I realize how deeply the Sun is God in accessible form, God who does not speak with words but with warmth; God who does not punish, but illuminates; God who does not demand worship but only presence. He stands on the horizon without insist...

Sometimes I think that every drama has its own “pond” — that quiet, murky water in which the unconscious reflects itself. Nothing happens by accident. Every situation is an invitation to awareness — not to punish us, but to illuminate something we have forgotten to see. Even illness, even conflict, even a simple misunderstanding between people — all of them are mirrors in which the soul tries to remember where it has distorted its own image. How often we fail to truly hear, because we still listen through the sediments of the past. The illness may leave the body, but thought — thought has its own memory, its inertia. The unconscious does not forget easily, and consciousness must patiently illuminate it, like the sun that returns each day over the same field until the fog finally dissolves. Healing is not only physical. Nor is it a single act. It is a state of mind , an act of continuous purification. It is not only about therapies, medicines, or methods. It is about inner hygiene — ...

 Sometimes I think that healing is like a sunrise — it does not happen all at once, but is born slowly, in the depth of the light rising within us. The body is only the last boundary, the final screen upon which our invisible thoughts and feelings project their images. Illness does not begin there — it descends, as rain flows from the clouds. And if we seek true healing, we cannot search for it only in the physical flesh; we must ascend higher — look toward the inner sky , toward that space where thought breathes and the soul listens. To be healthy means to be pure in your thinking. To not allow the sediments of fear, anger, or guilt to cloud the spring of consciousness. For from there — from that invisible sphere of sensations and archetypes — everything arises that later manifests as visible suffering. The physical is only the mirror of the subtle layers. If the water at the source is clear, the stream remains alive. If it becomes muddy, the river sickens — and so does the huma...

  Sometimes I feel that the whole world is a single breathing body, an immense skin vibrating between silence and calling. The human realm, the animal realm, the plant realm — three forms of consciousness, three breaths interwoven in one unified pulse. If you listen deeply, you can hear how the sap of the trees moves in rhythm with our blood, how the breath of animals enters us like a prayer. We are not separate, we never have been. We have only forgotten how to listen. And when illness appears — in the body, in nature, in society — it does not come as an enemy, but as a signal to awaken. Illness is not a mistake, but a letter from the center to the periphery. Cleansing always begins from the inside out, just as confession begins in the silence before words. The symptom is the crying skin of the world, begging us to stop, to see, to become aware. And when we — with all our intellectual arrogance — try to suppress the symptom, we silence the mouth of Truth itself. I think of this ...