Anelly Aya's blog

  Today is the day when silence weighs more than words , yet also the day when words attempt to find a form for something that is, by nature, formless. I sit before the blank page, or rather, before the inner landscape, spilled out to infinity , and I feel the border between myself and the world melting like wax. This is that state—so familiar and yet always new—when the human personality becomes only a small, filtering door to the Infinite . You open it not by will, but as if by some deep, archetypal necessity. Perhaps it is a pain that has become too large to fit within the confines of the "I"; perhaps it is a curiosity that has reached the point of spiritual hunger ; or simply an inner need for authenticity that demands you be dissolved so that you may be gathered again. And suddenly, without warning, you find yourself outside yourself , unfolded into a multi-dimensional space where categories—"I," "You," "World"—lose their palpable, rationa...

  There, where the asphalt ends and the crumbly earth begins, something more profound happens than merely crossing a geographical boundary; there, we cross the threshold of our own consciousness. At the beginning, there is always the call—not the loud, external clamor of the world demanding attention, but a quiet, subterranean vibration that Sarah, our guide in this journey, recognizes as "Awakening Amidst Peaks." This is not merely a physical ascent, but a ritualistic shedding of the social masks we have worn for so long that they have fused with our skin. When the gaze is fixed upward, toward that jagged line separating earth from sky, we are actually looking inward, towards the verticality of our own spirit. The mountain is not just a backdrop; it is a psychoanalytic space, a mirror reflecting everything we have repressed , forgotten, or refused to be. In the first steps, breathing is difficult, fragmented, as if the city air were heavy with unspoken words and anxiety. B...

  The night descends upon the city not like a curtain, but like a heavy, velvety silence that swallows the contours of the familiar world, leaving only the radiance of the screens—these small, cold altars before which we bow our heads in search of something we cannot even name. In this twilight hour, when the border between day and sleep thins, I catch myself standing on the shore of a boundless digital river, gazing at my reflection; but what I see is not my face, but a fragmented projection, a hologram of an "I" that I have constructed in order to be loved, or at least noticed, in the world of incorporeal signals. Here, in this space of zeros and ones, begins my quiet, yet insistent journey toward the core of pain and hope—a journey from digital pretense to the sacred ground of authenticity. I write this with a feeling of slight dizziness, as if I have just awakened from a long, intoxicating slumber. We live in an age of unprecedented connectivity, and yet, we have never b...

  Wednesday evening. Or perhaps it is Thursday morning. Time has long since shed its linear constraint, dissolving into one protracted, quiet "now" that sometimes shrinks to the pulse in my temple and sometimes expands to the periphery of the galaxy. I write this because words are the only way left to delineate the shores of the ocean that is surging within me. Sometimes the human personality is merely a small, inconspicuous doorway to infinity. A fissure in the dense fabric of the everyday. You open it unconsciously—perhaps out of a pain that has grown too vast for the body, out of a curiosity bordering on madness, or from that deep, atavistic internal need to know what lies beyond. And suddenly, without warning, you find yourself outside of yourself. The Self dissolves. The boundaries of the skin become permeable, and what we call "the world" ceases to be an object of observation and becomes the subject of pure experience. In this multidimensional space, the conc...

  The night is silent, as if the world is holding its breath in anticipation of something about to be born, and I sit here, in the dim light of my own thoughts, allowing a single question to ring in my mind with the insistence of a church bell: Am I truly ready? This is not a question about the logistics of life, nor about the to-do lists we rewrite every morning in an attempt to organize the chaos of existence; it is an inquiry that digs much deeper, to the very foundations of identity, where the soul meets the ego in that fragile, trembling moment of truth. Am I ready to receive the abundance, love, and fulfillment that life is patiently holding for me, or have I fallen in love with the waiting itself, with that sweet, familiar ache of longing that makes us feel alive, yet never fully present? I often think of the illusion of "someday"—that mythical space in time where we believe everything will finally align. We live in the antechamber of our own lives, convincing ourselve...

  Sometimes, in the quietest hours of the night, when the world tucks away its noisy outlines, I return to the beginning. I think of that primal act by which we enter reality. We are born physically, passing through the narrow, suffocating passage of flesh, through that first dark tunnel that knows neither words nor thoughts, only blind trust, pressure, and an irresistible, cruel direction forward. But more and more often, I think that this is only the beginning of a much longer birth. That our entire life in this physical dimension is not a state of completion, but a continuing birthing process, simply in another form. All the walls we crash into as we walk through our days. All the pains that have forced us into silence. All the wounds, resistances, contradictions, and limitations—they are not punishment, nor are they accidents. They are our ongoing labor pains. This is a spiritual passage through the narrowness of human existence. The truth that shines through the veil of the ...

  I watch the light slowly retreat from the room, leaving behind that peculiar, violet glow that heralds the night. I no longer hold a map in my hands; the map has shifted inside me, traced upon my veins and my breath. It is strange how insight arrives not with thunder, but as a quiet settling of layers, like a scalpel carefully dissecting the stratified tissue of my daily life to reveal the pulsing, sometimes bleeding core of what I truly am. This is no longer a search; it is an act of voluntary capitulation to the truth , that moment when I stopped running from my own shadow and turned to look it in the eye. And in its eyes, I saw not a monster, but an abandoned child. In a psychoanalytic sense, I realize I have lived as a stranger in my own home. I kept the rooms of my Ego tidy and clean, perfect for guests, while in the basement of the unconscious I kept my fears, my unlived desires, and that fragile feminine vulnerability which seemed to me an unforgivable weakness, locked awa...

  Sometimes I think that courage in love is the rarest mineral in the world — one that forms only under immense pressure, in the darkness of the inner earth. It is not the kind of courage that boasts in the higher rooms of language, but the one that asks you to stand quietly before your own truth, without flinching, without running. The courage to not be idealized, to not idealize, to lower the crown so you can understand that its weight comes precisely from its truth. And still — the “heavy crown” of true love… it is not an ornament. It is a trial. At times I feel it like an invisible, cool diadem placed upon me at the very moment love meets truth. In that instant of collision when you see the shadow in the other , and even more painfully — the shadow in yourself . And then you realize how much audacity is required to stay. To not escape toward the comfort of illusion. To not hide behind the habits of old fears. Because love — the true kind — always summons something ancient...

  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...