Happy Valentine's day

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. Psychoanalytically speaking, we spend most of our lives in search of the lost object, in an attempt to fill that primordial lack that defines us as subjects. This longing for the Other is, in fact, a longing for our lost wholeness, for that pre-natal state of fusion where there was no "I" and "you," but only being. And when I see couples today, holding hands, I do not see mere romance; I see the dramatic attempt of the human soul to overcome its fundamental solitude, to cast a bridge over the abyss of individual existence.

But what happens to those who have remained alone? For them, this day can be a quiet torture or, conversely, the highest form of initiation. Solitude is not an absence of presence, but the presence of a deeper inwardness that requires us to gaze into our own abyss without fear. In psychoanalysis, we speak of the capacity to be alone in the presence of the other, but here, in the spiritual sense, it is about something more—the capacity to be alone in the presence of God. Those who today have no human face before them in which to mirror themselves are called to a harder, yet more radiant love. They are in the desert, and in the desert, the voice of Truth is heard most clearly, for there is no one to drown it out with the noise of the ego and its endless claims for attention.

True Love is not possession; it is liberation. It is that moment when you stop seeing the other as an instrument for your own happiness and begin to see them as sacred territory, as a mystery that is not to be solved, but only contemplated. This is the metaphysical transition from Eros to Agape, from the desire that consumes to the love that bestows. And herein lies the deepest paradox: we can only truly love when we no longer need the other to feel whole. When our wholeness is anchored in something greater than human transience, then love ceases to be a bargain of needs and becomes an outpouring of grace.

I think of those who carry the scars of separation, of those whose hearts have become as wide as the ocean precisely because of the wounds that have torn them open. Psychoanalysis teaches us that trauma can be a portal. Through the breach in our psychic defense, the light of awareness rushes in. To be alone on the feast of love is an invitation to return to the center, to that point of stillness where Love for God and Divine Love meet in one eternal, silent pulse. This is not an escape from the world, but a deeper entry into its essence. For what is God, if not the very substrate of Love, that invisible thread that holds atoms and galaxies together, and which, in moments of absolute silence, we can feel like a light breeze upon our skin?

Divine Love is strange to human reason—it is not an emotion; it is a state of being. It does not change according to our merits or our failings. It is like the sun, which shines equally upon the righteous and the sinner, upon the lover and the lonely. When a person remains alone, they have the unique chance to experience this Love as a pure verticality, without the horizontal distraction of human dramas. In this state of "sacred solitude," we discover that we were never truly separate. Our sense of abandonment is merely an illusion of the ego, which feels threatened by the silence. But in this silence, God speaks most eloquently. His love is not an answer to our questions; it is the very presence that makes questions unnecessary.

Love for God, for its part, is the highest form of self-denial, which paradoxically leads to the highest affirmation of the personality. In it, we do not lose ourselves, but find our true name, written in the palms of the Creator. This is a love that does not seek reciprocity, for it is its own reward. It is like breath—we do not breathe to receive something in return, but because it is the only way to live. Thus, the soul that has known Divine Love begins to radiate light simply because it has been touched by the Source of light.

Today, amidst the artificial glow of the holiday, I choose to pray for those who feel invisible. For those sitting in the corner of a cafe with a book in hand while the world around them celebrates its duality. I want to tell them that their solitude is precious, that it is an alchemical vessel in which the lead of sadness turns into the gold of wisdom. Their "remaining alone" is, in fact, remaining with the Self—that higher Self which is in constant dialogue with Eternity. In the psychoanalytic process, we often strive to reconcile the patient with their history, with their lacks. In the spiritual process, we go beyond history, to where the lack becomes fullness.

True Love is transformation. It changes us not by what we receive, but by what we become. It is a fire that incinerates everything false, everything superficial, until only the pure core of our existence remains. And if this holiday reminds us of anything, it must be that we are created by Love and for Love—and that this Love does not depend on the presence of another person in the room. It is here, in the rhythm of the heart, in the coolness of the air, in the unspoken thought, in the tear that trickles down the cheek not from pain, but from wonder at the beauty of being.

Humility is the key. To accept that perhaps, at this stage of your journey, your role is to be a guardian of silence. To be the one who loves without an object, who prays without asking, who simply remains present. In this presence, grace is born. It does not come with fanfares but creeps in quietly, like mist over a lake in the early morning. It whispers to us that everything is alright, that we are loved with a power we cannot even imagine, and that our solitude is but an illusion of time, while eternity has already embraced us.

Therefore, let this day be dedicated to Love that knows no boundaries—between heaven and earth, between the human and the divine. Let it be a feast of those quiet victories over despair, of those moments when we chose to forgive, to bless, and to move forward, despite the emptiness in our bed. For in the end, we are all strangers seeking the way Home, and Love is the only light that can lead us through the night.

I close my diary with a sense of a peculiar peace. The light in the room has become even softer, almost golden. Outside, the world may continue its noisy dance, but here, inside, the time of the great Reconciliation has arrived. We are not alone; we never have been. We are woven into an infinite web of mercy, and every breath we take is a testimony of God’s love for us. And in this sense, the feast of Love is every day, every hour, every moment in which we realize that we are alive and that we are part of this great, inexpressible mystery.

Let our love be like water—quiet, deep, and able to find a path through the hardest rocks of the ego. Let it be like breath—unnoticeable, yet vital. And let, in the silence of this February evening, each of us feel that they are found, known, and infinitely loved, exactly as they are, in their imperfect but sacred human nature. For in the eyes of God, there are no lonely people, only souls who are still learning how to return to the Source of all that is. And that is the most beautiful journey we can undertake.

Perhaps true inspiration is not in finding someone with whom to share the holiday, but in discovering that the holiday is within you, that you are the temple in which God has lit His eternal candle. And when this candle burns, darkness no longer has power. Solitude turns into contemplation, sadness into depth, and longing into prayer. And then you realize that everything is Love. Even absence. Even silence. Even the end. For in Love, there is no end; there is only a new beginning, an endless metamorphosis of the spirit striving toward its Creator.

I write these lines as a letter to myself, but also as a message to every heart pulsing in the rhythm of uncertainty. Be blessed in your solitude, for it is the threshold of holiness. Be brave in your love, for it is the only thing you will take with you when the curtain falls. And remember—Divine Love is not a destination; it is the path itself. And on this path, no one walks alone, even when it seems that only their footsteps are imprinted in the sands of time. Beside us always walks the One who called us into life, and His hand is always outstretched, waiting only for our consent to be loved.

1200 words are not enough to describe the ocean. But perhaps they are enough to feel a single drop of it. And in that drop is the entire universe. In that drop is God. In that drop is you.