Anelly Aya

  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...