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Showing posts from February, 2026

Happy Valentine's day

By Anelly Aya Anelly Aya
February 14. The world outside is submerged in a strange, almost obsessive intent for festivity, wrapped in the red silk of expectations and the noisy glitter of promises that often dissolve before they are even fully spoken. But here, in this enclosed space of my internal dialogue, silence has a different taste—it is thick, almost palpable, like a prayer that has not yet found its words but has already filled my lungs. I watch how the light of the winter sun refracts through the glass, leaving long, pale traces upon the floor, and I think of Love—not as an event, not as a date on the calendar, but as an ontological necessity , as the only breath that justifies our presence in this world of shadows and reflections. The Feast of Love often finds us unprepared because we, in our human fragility, are accustomed to seeking it outside ourselves—in the gaze of the other, in the warmth of a hand, in the confirmation of our own significance through the presence of someone else. Psychoanalytic...
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Happy Valentine's day

By Anelly Aya Anelly Aya
February 14. The world outside is submerged in a strange, almost obsessive intent for festivity, wrapped in the red silk of expectations and the noisy glitter of promises that often dissolve before they are even fully spoken. But here, in this enclosed space of my internal dialogue, silence has a different taste—it is thick, almost palpable, like a prayer that has not yet found its words but has already filled my lungs. I watch how the light of the winter sun refracts through the glass, leaving long, pale traces upon the floor, and I think of Love—not as an event, not as a date on the calendar, but as an ontological necessity , as the only breath that justifies our presence in this world of shadows and reflections. The Feast of Love often finds us unprepared because we, in our human fragility, are accustomed to seeking it outside ourselves—in the gaze of the other, in the warmth of a hand, in the confirmation of our own significance through the presence of someone else. Psychoanalytic...
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Spiritual surgery

By Anelly Aya Anelly Aya
  The ink of my thoughts today is thick, heavy, as if saturated with the very matter of the earth that I am trying to transmute into spirit. I sit in the silence and listen to time dripping—steady, relentless—while a painful anatomy of existence unfolds before my eyes. There are moments when the metaphor of the spiritual oasis is no longer enough to withstand the pressure of external degradation. We often deceive ourselves into thinking that our inner light, this fragile flame of personal goodness, is sufficient to illuminate even the densest darkness outside. But today, in this space between the breath and the prayer, I realize a harsh truth: when necrotic cells appear in the fabric of reality, humility ceases to be a virtue and becomes complicity. Surgery is not an act of hatred; it is an act of supreme care for the whole. There is a specific, conscious insolence , a malice that walks unhindered through the temples of our daily lives, and it cannot be cured by passive waiting. F...
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1 february

By Anelly Aya Anelly Aya
  February 1, afternoon. The light in the room has already taken on that deep, amber hue that heralds the end of the day, and in this lull, I feel my gaze turning definitively inward—toward the darkest and most secluded corners of my own being. When a person accepts voluntary or forced deprivation for the sake of their "bliss," they inevitably face their shadows—those parts of themselves long masked by the noise of success, the glitter of possessions, or the illusion of social significance. Poverty is a silence in which our shadows begin to speak loudly, and in this dialogue, a new, previously unknown relationship with oneself is born—a relationship of ruthless honesty and, simultaneously, infinite mercy. From a psychoanalytic perspective, material status often serves as a secondary skin, protecting our fragile ego from meeting the "inner beggar"—that archetypal image of our inadequacy, of our primal deficiency. When we shed this skin, we find ourselves face to face...
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Being-Love

By Anelly Aya Anelly Aya
  February 1, a little later. The sun has already touched the edge of the table, and in this growing light, my thoughts—previously cocooned within my own soul—begin to expand outward, toward the Other. I asked myself: how does this starved freedom, this quiet architecture of deprivation, change the way we touch the people around us? If money and material security are often the armor with which we face the world, then their absence leaves us stripped bare—not only before God, but before our neighbor. A true encounter between two human beings is possible only when we stop seeing each other as objects of use or instruments of security. From a psychoanalytic perspective, most of our relationships are woven from projections and transfers—we rarely love the person across from us; more often, we love the function they fulfill in our internal economic model. We love their ability to give us confidence, their status, their role as the "good parent" or the "generous donor." B...
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Freedom Beyond Money - A Psychoanalytic Reflection

By Anelly Aya Anelly Aya
  The hour when shadows lose their sharpness and turn into soft, bleeding stains upon the old parquet floor is the time when words begin to carry a different weight. I sit in the twilight of the room, which feels wider than it actually is—perhaps because there is too much space in it for the things that never happened—and in my mind echo the words someone tossed out today like an old, worn-out coin: "Money may be gone, but at least we are free." This phrase, often used as a shield against poverty or a bitter consolation for missed opportunities, suddenly struck me not as an excuse, but as a profound, almost mystical diagnosis of the human condition. As I watched the dust motes dancing in the final beam of light, I asked myself what this "lack" we call pennilessness actually means, and how it transforms into the "presence" we call freedom. From a psychoanalytic perspective , money is the most reliable object of our projection; it is the symbolic equivalent...
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The evolution of consciousness through suffering

By Anelly Aya Anelly Aya
The silence in this room is no longer empty; it has acquired density, weight, and the scent of purification. I lie motionless and watch the light, refracted through the glass, slowly crawl along the wall—the only clock that matters in this liminal state of existence. The illness, which at first burst in like a brutal intruder, like a thief stealing my everyday rhythm and my sense of inviolability, has gradually begun to reveal its true nature. It is not merely a biological breakdown or a glitch in the code of my body; it is a metaphysical pause in which the soul is finally given the chance to heal its body. In this enforced stillness, the highest form of alchemy begins—the evolution of consciousness through suffering, a slow, painful, yet inevitable transition from the illusion of control to the grace of humility. When the body refuses to serve, when it becomes a heavy, disobedient vessel, consciousness undergoes a strange kind of descent—a journey into the depths of our own somatic h...
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Архитектура на разпознаването - Когато душата си спомни бъдещето

By Anelly Aya Anelly Aya
Понякога светът спира. Не в гръм и трясък, а в една тънка, почти невидима пукнатина на настоящето, през която нахлува вечността. Стоиш в претъпкана стая или вървиш по мократа улица, и изведнъж един поглед, една случайна сянка върху лицето на непознат, преобръща вътрешния ти пейзаж. Това не е просто влюбване. Не е и просто химия. Това е нещо по-дълбоко, по-древно и същевременно по-плашещо — усещането, че в този миг не срещаш някого за първи път, а се завръщаш към нещо, което винаги си знаел. Защо някои хора се чувстват като „у дома“, още преди да сме научили имената им? Дали това е ехо от минал живот, или е просто сложен психологически механизъм на проектиране? В страниците на моя вътрешен дневник днес разгръщам темата за онази тиха метафизика, която наричаме любов от пръв поглед, и се опитвам да разчета нейните скрити кодове през призмата на духа и психоанализата. Припознаването като завръщане към изгубения обект В психоаналитичната традиция няма нищо случайно в това, което наричаме „...
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