Anelly Aya's blog

  In the silence of this pre-sleep room, where the walls seem to absorb the last remnants of daylight, I am overtaken by the echo of a prayer that is not merely words, but a breath, a pulsation, a fateful rhythm. Lord, I thank Thee for all that Thou givest me, and for all that Thou dost not give. This phrase is not resignation, nor is it an escape; it is the exquisite architecture of an inner liberation, in which the ego finally bows its head before the infinite. I begin to write, my pen barely touching the paper, as if I fear disturbing the fragile equilibrium of this insight, which carries simultaneously the weight of my entire life thus far and the lightness of a newborn presence. The psychoanalysis of my desire has always led me toward the abyss of lack—toward 그 primordial longing to possess, to fill the gaps, to turn the world into a mirror of my own deficits. But here, in this sacred space of faith, gratitude for that which is not given to me becomes the highest form of spi...

  December 23rd. The hour when the night has not yet retreated, and the day is but a pale suggestion upon the edge of the horizon, is the time when truths surface from the silence like ghostly ships. I sit before the white page and feel how the silence in my room is not an emptiness, but a fullness—a dense, almost tangible substance that compels me to look inward, to that place where words usually lose their weight. Today, a thought pulses insistently in my mind, one I heard in a half-sleep or perhaps read within the folds of my own memory: “The poor man is wealthier than the rich, but he often does not know it…” How strange this statement is, how paradoxical, and yet how painfully true when viewed through the prism of the soul rather than the eyes of the world. In our culture, obsessed with possession, we are accustomed to measuring our worth through accumulation—of things, of statuses, of memories to be displayed like trophies. But in the quiet hours of self-reflection, when the ...

  The silence of this night is different—it is not merely an absence of sound, but an anticipation so dense it can almost be touched. I sit before the final page of my holiday diary and confront the deepest, quietest, and perhaps most painful territory of my existence: unrequitedness . This strange, melancholic space of "misalignment," where the spirit has already achieved its unity, but the flesh, the earthly "little body," still yearns for the warmth of an outstretched hand, for a "companion" with whom to share both bread and the road. You say something exceptionally profound: that in Spirit, everything is already shared, the answers are given, and at the level of Essence, we are one. This is the highest stage of our awakening. But here, in this physical world of forms, we experience the paradox of incarnation. Our body is the site of our individuality, our boundary. And it is precisely here, at this boundary, that these painful misalignments occur—“I wa...

  The morning is crystalline, and the air so pure that every breath feels like a small communion, reminding me that the spiritual path does not end in the silence of contemplation; rather, it is only now beginning its true journey toward the world. I look at my hands and think of the paradox of the Incarnation—if Christ is born in us , then He is born not only in our thoughts or feelings, but in our actions, in our fingers, in the very rhythm of our presence among others. In psychoanalytic terms, this is the moment of transition from narcissistic absorption toward a mature capacity for generativity—for a creativity that transcends the narrow boundaries of our own Ego. I understand now that all this rooting, centering, and purification I have written about in recent days was merely the preparation of the soil—the invisible work of the root before the first fruit appears. True initiation is not proven in moments of ecstasy, but in our ability to carry this inner light into the most ...

  The first rays of morning are still timid, as if apologizing for disturbing the solemn silence of the night, yet within me, the light has already shifted in its intensity. When I awoke, I felt that something fundamental had moved in the way I perceive the space outside of myself. If yesterday’s reflection was focused on my personal encounter with the Divine, today I understand that this birth in Him cannot remain confined within the boundaries of my solitude. It is like a stone cast into still water—the circles expand until they encompass the entire horizon of my human relationships. Suddenly, I realize that my sanctification is inextricably linked to the way I see the face of the Other, and that every human being I meet carries within them their own deep and sometimes impenetrable inner cave. Before this experience of renewal, the world of others often seemed to me like a collection of functions, roles, or—worse—as a screen for my own projections. Psychoanalysis teaches us that...

  December 10th. Or perhaps it is the 11th. Time has lost its linear rhythm since the days merged into one long, gray anticipation. The light today falls obliquely through the window, illuminating the dust motes that dance in the silence—the only motion in this room, which is simultaneously a sanctuary and a prison. I write this not to complain, but to comprehend. To map this desert we find ourselves in. The words we hear every day – impasse, inflation, unemployment, poverty, low standard, scarcity, deprivation, loneliness – sound like dry, technical terms in the news, but here, in my inner world, they have flesh, they have the weight of a stone laid upon the chest at night. I sit opposite myself in this twilight of the spirit. What we call a "crisis" is, in fact, a deep, unsettling psychoanalytic pause imposed upon us by reality; the moment when the external supports of the ego – career, financial security, social status – crumble to reveal the fragile construction beneath...

  Here I am again before the blank page, at this hour of the day when light is still only a promise, and the shadows are long and blurred—reminders of everything that remains hidden in the folds of consciousness. Today, I do not write to remember, but to forget: to forget the script I have so painstakingly rehearsed over the years, that invisible score of expectations that dictates my every step, every gesture, every sigh. Today, I open the space of the therapeutic journal dedicated to the most terrifying and most holy of all practices: Improvisation. I look into myself and see not an ordered room, but an ocean. The internal landscape is a place of constant, pulsating movement, devoid of the geometry of logic. There, in the depths, there is movement without a plan. It is ancient, pre-verbal, existing before language imposed its structures upon the chaos of experience. I feel it as a low rumble, a vibration that does not seek permission to exist. In this space, there is no score, no...

  The light outside is changing, slowly losing its decisiveness and sinking into those intermediate hours of twilight when the world seems to have stopped, holding its breath between day and night. It is precisely in this hour of silence that I open the pages of my Therapeutic Journal — Threshold and Transition — to encounter that which scares me most and yet attracts me most powerfully: the unknown. Today, I am not writing to solve problems or to plot plans upon the map of the future. Today, I write to acknowledge a state that my mind desperately tries to avoid, but my soul recognizes as home. I look inward and see that the internal landscape has changed. The clear outlines of the familiar are gone; the paths I once walked with the confidence of habit have vanished. Instead, there is a threshold within me. This is not a door that I can close or open with a single movement of the will. It is not an end, though it carries within it the taste of a goodbye. It is a place between — b...

  This is not merely a record of the day, but a cartography of an invisible territory. I write slowly, for words today carry a specific, sweet weight—as if they are saturated with the rain that fell through my dreams all night. The world outside may be rushing, clocks ticking away their ruthless, linear logic, but here, in the space behind the breastbone, time has ceased to be a measure and has become a state of being. Today, my inner landscape is a morning forest after rain. Gone is the dry, dusty anxiety of summer, and the icy rigidity of winter. Instead, I feel the dampness of fertile soil— the earth is alive, breathing, ready to birth, yet in no hurry to do so. The air holds that crystalline purity that comes only after a storm or after a long weep that has washed away the sediment of the ego. The silence is not empty; it is saturated, dense, present. There is a slightly misty feeling, but it does not frighten. In the psychoanalytic sense, this fog is the liminal space—the th...

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  Powered by From the Diary of a Highly Sensitive Child is a gentle and intimate invitation into the hidden world of a child who feels life more deeply than most. Told entirely in the child’s own voice, the book opens her heart wide, where tears become a language, dreams turn into maps of secret places, and silence transforms into a safe refuge. Each page feels raw and tender, offering readers a rare glimpse into the delicate balance of sensitivity, imagination, and hope. When the world finally quiets at night, the child leans into her diary to share her truths. She writes about the booming voices of adults who forget how loud they sound, about classrooms that overwhelm her with constant noise, and about the ache she feels when Mom and Dad argue. She confesses her fears, her loneliness, her dreams, and her deep desire to be understood. Yet alongside these tender confessions live sparks of wonder. She introduces her secret friends—angels...

  December 5th. Afternoon. The afternoon stretches out slowly, gray and heavy, as if time itself has lost the desire to move forward, stalled in some intermediate zone of twilight and expectation. The light in the room is scarce, muted, and in this half-shadow, I sit and look at my hands. They are here, before me, physically present, yet I feel them strangely alien, as if the blood has retreated from them, afraid to reach the periphery of my being. They are cold. Not just superficially chilled, but deeply, bone-chillingly cold, as if they carry the memory of a long winter that is not a season, but a state of mind. My whole body is encased in an invisible embrace of ice, in a tormenting, paralytic state of 'not having.' Until now, I thought I was simply exhausted, that I had surrendered in the face of a difficult daily life. But today, in the heavy silence of this afternoon, as the street noise fades behind the windowpane, I grasped the cruel, yet liberating, truth about what ...