Anelly Aya's blog

  "From the earliest days of humanity, people looked to the sky, the trees, the rivers, and the seasons not simply as background scenery but as teachers. Nature was the original scripture, written not in ink but in symbols of wind, water, light, and growth. Every sunrise was a promise, every autumn leaf a reminder, every cycle of rain and drought a silent teaching about the balance between abundance and scarcity. Somewhere along the way, in the rush of modern life, we forgot this language. We began to treat nature as something to conquer, manipulate, or exploit, rather than something to learn from. To live in sync with nature is not just a poetic phrase or an old-fashioned ideal - it is an ancient wisdom that holds practical and spiritual truth for our times. When we observe the rhythms of the natural world, we rediscover a pattern that can guide us in how we work, how we rest, how we create, and how we renew ourselves. The forgotten wisdom is that life is not linear but cyclical....

  The question that lingers through all the noise of our time is this: what does it mean to be authentic in a world built to reward performance, imitation, and speed? To imagine a future where authenticity thrives is not simply an exercise in optimism; it is a survival instinct for the human spirit. If we do not dare to create such a vision, the machinery of distraction and commodification will continue to shape us into copies of copies, until we forget there was ever such a thing as an original voice, an unedited life, a genuine presence. Authenticity begins with the simplest yet hardest of acts: telling the truth about who we are. Not the curated truth, not the glossy highlight reel, not the version that algorithms will reward with clicks and likes, but the messy, contradictory, luminous truth. To move toward an authentic future means daring to live in a way that is untranslatable into metrics. It means finding value in the depth of connection rather than in its visibility. I...

  In today’s hyper-connected world, we are constantly promised community at the click of a button. Platforms assure us that we are only ever one post away from recognition, one share away from visibility. And yet, more and more people find themselves feeling unseen, unheard, and profoundly alone. This paradox—the illusion of connection in an age of algorithms—sits at the heart of my upcoming novel, Invisible: A Story of Silence, Algorithms, and the Search for Belonging. The book was born out of an unsettling observation: the more digital noise we create, the more many of us feel as if our voices vanish into a void. We pour out thoughts, emotions, and creativity, only to see them swallowed by systems designed not to foster community, but to exploit attention. What does it mean to be human in such a world? What does it mean to long for recognition, for belonging, when visibility itself has been commodified? Invisible is not just a story—it is a mirror. It follows a narrator naviga...

  There are stories that seem too delicate to belong to this world, threads of love spun so fine that only the heart can see them. The story of Katerine and Antoan is one such tale—a story of souls who carried a promise across centuries, a vow beyond time. Katerine lived her life like most others, surrounded by the ordinary rhythm of days, yet there was always a quiet restlessness in her. She could never explain why certain places felt so familiar, why some faces in the crowd made her heart tremble with recognition, or why she often dreamt of walking through landscapes she had never seen. There was, hidden in her, a sense that her story had begun long before her birth. When she underwent a regression session—half out of curiosity, half out of longing—her life changed. Images rose from the depths of her soul: ancient streets, forgotten faces, and a promise whispered under the stars. A young woman, centuries ago, stood before a man she loved beyond measure. Their hands were joined,...

  On the small wooden nightstand beside Zornitsa’s bed, a stack of books stood like silent companions. Their spines, worn from handling, carried titles that promised wisdom, healing, and transcendence. They were not simply books, not to her. They were lanterns in the dark , guides that held out the possibility of light when her mind was tangled in the heaviness of sleepless nights and the haunting quiet of her apartment. Each evening, before turning off the lamp, she would reach for one, as if reaching for a friend who had waited patiently all day to speak. The books were eclectic yet united by a single thread: the search for meaning. Some had been given to her years ago, others she had bought impulsively in moments of desperation, when loneliness became unbearable and she sought refuge in words. They were the voices of teachers she never met but somehow knew intimately, for they spoke directly into her soul. When human presence was absent, the presence of wisdom filled the gap. ...

  Zornitsa had grown used to rejection, but nothing prepared her for the labyrinth of modern job portals. They promised opportunity but delivered impossibility. Each platform—LinkedIn, Indeed, Glassdoor, local boards—shone with polished ads, sleek corporate branding, and endless lists of roles that seemed to shout: “Apply here, the world is waiting for you!” Yet behind the glossy interface, Zornitsa felt she was pushing against a locked door, her applications dissolving into silence. The first time she created an account, she felt optimistic. She uploaded her CV, carefully formatted, polished her skills list, and added a professional photo where she smiled gently into the lens. The portal encouraged her with bright green progress bars: Profile 70% complete. Profile 85% complete. She kept clicking until she saw the glowing 100%, as if achieving completeness could somehow guarantee success. The illusion of completion was powerful. The system made her believe she was almost t...

Zornitsa had always believed that the internet was a kind of escape hatch, a parallel universe where the rules of her fragile body and failing health might not matter. If she couldn’t run to catch buses, sit for long hours in offices, or withstand the noise of open workspaces, then maybe she could sit quietly in her room, laptop glowing, and still earn a living. The dream of freelancing became her secret medicine—the hope that she could rebuild herself outside the visible world. It started innocently enough. She signed up for platforms with cheerful names promising freedom: freedom from bosses, freedom from rigid schedules, freedom to work “anywhere.” The word freelance itself shimmered like a banner of independence. She imagined herself crafting designs, writing, creating digital products, all while the illness remained hidden behind the screen. No one would need to know that she was dizzy while answering emails, or that she typed lying down on her bed when sitting upright was unbe...