There are early morning hours when the light is still a tentative thread along the edge of the night, and the room's silence feels like a vessel waiting to receive the day's first breath. Before me lies the open page. Over the years, I have…
Anatomy of Escape - From the Illusion of Tarshish to the Truth of NinevehThe hour between the last star and the first ray of sunrise always carried a scent of uncertainty and quiet permeability. In this bluish twilight, when the outer world…
The Thunder Within: St. Elijah’s Day, Inner Storms & Spiritual AwakeningJuly 20th. The hour of the afternoon haze.The air today isn't merely heavy - it trembles, condensed by the haze and the held breath of the approaching storm. Barely thr…
The Alchemy of St. Elijah’s Day: Folk Wisdom & St. John’s WortJuly 20th. Late afternoon, right after the first drop of rain.On my table lies a bouquet of half-withered St. John’s Wort (Hypericum perforatum) - which my grandmother used to ca…
July 17th. The hour before sunrise.Dawn breaks slowly, with that peculiar, bluish coolness that feels as though it does not descend from the sky, but rather emerges from the earth itself. In this brief fissure between night and day, the wor…
There are days in the traditional calendar that are more than simple dates. They are doors to an older world - a world in which people did not see nature as something separate from themselves, but as a living part of their own existence. In…
July 13th. The hour before the first ray of sun.The silence in this room has always tasted of anticipation - of something unfinished, breathing in the dark corners and waiting to be named, while the ink seeps into the paper slowly, almost r…
July 14. Early morning, haven't even had coffee yet.I was pacing around the room, re-reading what we jotted down in the journal last time. You know, I feel like we're just tangling ourselves up in our own threads. All this talk about modern…
Morning arrives with that peculiar, almost disembodied silence in which light does not yet possess color, only contours. I sit before the blank page of my diary, feeling the coolness of the air blend with the rhythm of my breathing. In this…
Dawn always arrives with a peculiar, almost cool transparency, in which the light has not yet acquired its dense, everyday confidence, but instead creeps timidly through the cracks of the window like a thin white thread. In this interim hou…
July 6, the eve of dawn, when the mountain above the Vitosha district still breathes the cold, bluish air of the night, and the city beneath it is just beginning to rub its eyes clear of concrete and fog. I sit on the doorstep, gazing at th…
When I look into the intimate landscape of my own soul, I realize how deeply rooted the resistance to healing is. From a psychoanalytic perspective, illness - whether in the form of a destructive thought pattern or an exhausting relationshi…