There was a time
I was a hopeless romantic,
not the tragic kind,
not a soul made of sadness,
just someone who believed
that feeling deeply
was a form of loyalty to life.

I had passion then.
For things people now call small,
but never felt small to me.

Independence Day felt like a heartbeat.
National Day was a festival,
not a date on a calendar.
The city dressed itself in meaning,
and I walked through it
as if I belonged to something larger.

Even the quiet changes mattered.
New banners on the streets.
Lights hung where there were none before.
Associations, gatherings,
voices coming together
without needing a reason to compete.

I stayed up for New Year nights.
Not for countdowns or noise,
but for the feeling
that something was beginning,
that time could still surprise me.

I don’t do that anymore.

I still notice small joys.
A moment here, a smile there.
I am not unhappy.
But that urgency,
that pull toward participation,
has softened into distance.

Cyprus lives in me like a season
that never learned how to leave.
That was when I lived fully,
without trying to explain it.

I walked.
I watched the sea breathe.
Water, sand, sky
speaking without asking for proof.
The beaches held me gently,
as if presence alone was enough.

I wasn’t rushing.
I wasn’t performing.
I wasn’t trying to be impressive.
I was simply there,
and that was everything.

I don’t grieve that version of myself.
I don’t want her back unchanged.
But sometimes I miss
how passion arrived unannounced,
how belonging felt effortless.

Maybe it hasn’t vanished.
Maybe it’s waiting.
Like a city before dawn,
lights dimmed,
streets quiet,
still full of stories.

January 2026