On the 15th of every month, a new article.

15.04.2026

Full moon… just you and me…
No matter where you look at it from in this futile world, it is always the same. The landscape changes—and so do the embraces. Back then, it was filled with you. Now it is empty…
I stretch my arms wide, as if I could gather it into my chest. I close my eyes and hold it tight. Its light passes through me, soft and elastic, until it fills the hollow places inside my mind.
You left me. But only the moon can find you now—only it can track you down wherever you’ve hidden yourself.
«Search for her», I whisper into the night. «Tell me if she’s near… where she wanders… if she ever sees you held in someone else’s arms…»
Tears blur my vision as I collapse onto the sand, arms open to the sky. I begin to tremble. Is it the dampness of the sea air, or has the world suddenly turned cold? Or is it something else entirely…
I rise slightly, curling into myself. The shaking grows so violent my teeth begin to chatter. My mouth is dry, my hands damp with sweat. The salt of the sea burns my senses until the world tilts around me. My teeth strike against each other like a wild, broken rhythm.
Only the moon hears me now, suspended in the distance, watching without blinking.
Do you remember, Maria?
How many summers we waited together for the full moon to rise above the horizon. It would emerge slowly from the sea, and a silver path would spread across the water, reaching all the way to the shore. We would close our eyes and imagine walking that path—walking straight into the moonlight, to hold it in our arms.
And now… where are you, my little Maria? “Here,” you say. And laughter follows—fragile, unreal, like an echo that doesn’t belong to this world…
You left me alone with the sea and the moon. Back then I could hear nothing, smell nothing. All my senses belonged to you alone. Now they are all turned outward—toward the sea, the shore, the full moon.
The breeze passes through me as if I were made of nothing but open space, threading itself through every cell. It rattles across the pebbles as it kisses the shore.
«Hey…» I cry again toward the moon. «Does she see herself in someone else’s arms? Tell me… don’t spare me. Only you would know… don’t pity me…» And I break into tears.
I was ashamed to be seen like this by friends or strangers alike. But here, I will confess it only to the moon. It will be our secret, I whisper through sobs.
I stand. My arms open once more. Tears stream down like a river set loose. And then—without warning—I begin to dance a zeibekiko, the rhythm echoing only inside my head. The wet sand beneath my feet makes every step unstable, broken, as if I were a puppet coming apart. A sudden impulse drives me into the sea. I walk toward the silver path. But somewhere between dream and drowning, I stop. The water reaches my chin. I turn back toward the shore. How far have I come? The moonlight saves me—otherwise I would be lost forever. My teeth strike harder now, as if trying to speak a language no one understands. I turn back to the moon and shout something it cannot possibly decipher. Neither can I. Only fragments escape me.I turn and struggle back through the water.
My clothes cling to my body like another skin. My teeth continue their merciless rhythm. The salt has settled inside me, burning my eyes. The sand has turned to mud beneath my steps.
I try to warm myself with thought alone. Am I losing my mind? I look up again. The moon feels closer now—heavier, almost sorrowful.
«Why do you pity me?» I cry out with everything I have left. «Why?»
Then I collapse to my knees, pressing my forehead into the sand. I pray—every prayer I have ever learned spilling out of me.
How strange the things we ask for when we pray… I have nothing left to hold onto but a goodbye. A dry, abandoned goodbye. She left without giving me answers, without allowing me even a question. Why? How? Where? With whom?
«With whom?»
«Do you hear yourself?» a voice suddenly answers me—like wind cutting through silence.
The moon… The moon speaks. I step toward the shore but do not enter. I stand there, suspended between water and sky, staring upward. «I hear you», murmurs the sea.
«Find her», I beg. «Find her for me. Tell her I cannot live without her. Step into her path and turn her back toward me. And if she refuses… then do not let the sun rise. Let me dissolve in your light instead…»
A hand rests on my shoulder. I open my eyes. Maria is there—covering me as I wake on the balcony, the night still wrapped around me. In the distance, the full moon hangs silently. 

And from the radio, Antonis Remos sings—my moon.

15.03.2026

Excerpt from my book “How Greek Are You?” – Fylatos Publications

He wakes up dazed, tangled in his blanket. For days now he has been trying to sink deeper into the abyss of his dreams. The cold, rain-soaked weather freezes everything — nature, thoughts, consciences, every form of material and spiritual existence.
He gets out of bed and finds himself thinking of Greece. His loneliness keeps him trapped beneath the same roof, within the same walls, living and dying in the same silent space, without the faintest trace of warmth or love.
He dresses quickly and steps out into the streets. Moving briskly through the crowd, wrapped up like everyone else, he tries to shield himself from the biting cold and the relentless rain that has been falling without pause since yesterday afternoon. Slightly hunched, he walks with his eyes fixed on the ground while the heavy rain beats against the back of his neck like a rough, persistent massage.

15.02.2026

The magic of creation that cannot be replicated

Unfortunately, the list keeps growing. I will express my opinion as a writer—the field I have been representing here for quite some time. Undoubtedly, artificial intelligence will minimize the time a writer needs to finish a book. However, that is not the real issue.
Through writing, every author creates entire worlds. And fictional characters to whom they give real substance. They live with them. They eat with them. They drink coffee with them.
Each character can be compared to a vast pyramid, of which the reader only gets to see the tip. But for the tip to stand, a foundation is necessary. And that concerns only the writer.
The entire process of writing a book carries a unique kind of magic. The reader, on the other hand, wants to read the author’s opinion on a subject. To see their personal perspective. To feel their emotions.
In conclusion, for every writer this whole process holds something unique and special. One does not become a writer by chance or by accident. It is a conscious decision—for the entire writing journey. The writer pours their soul into it.
And all of this is taken away by artificial intelligence—from both the writer and the reader.

https://fortune.com/article/what-are-the-jobs-most-exposed-to-ai-microsoft-research/?utm_source=chatgpt.com

15.01.2026

Solitude: The Essential Space of Creation

Writing and becoming a writer means choosing solitude. Be careful — not loneliness, but solitude. Two concepts often confused, yet profoundly different. Loneliness is harsh, heavy, sometimes impenetrable; above all, it is a negative emotion that isolates and consumes. Solitude, on the other hand, is a matter of choice. It is a conscious withdrawal, a quiet space you create in order to hear your own voice without interruption.
Loneliness tends to last far longer than the soul can endure. Solitude, however, remains only for as long as creativity requires it. It comes, accompanies you through the act of creation, and then gently steps aside, leaving behind words, images, entire worlds. It is not an escape from life, but a return to it — richer, deeper, more meaningful.
Are you ready to make that choice? To embrace silence without fear and turn it into creation? If so, then you are ready to become a writer — and, more broadly, an artist.

15.12.2025

When a Story Is Born at Christmas

In ten days it’s Christmas! A celebration that, like any other, doesn’t need special words to express its beauty. No adjectives are needed to describe the colors, the tastes, the smells or the melodies. Just mentioning that it’s Christmas is enough—everything comes to your mind on its own. After all, it’s a family celebration and an opportunity to relax, both physically and mentally. However, despite this sense of calm, a simple meeting with friends or even a walk through a Christmas market can give birth to a story. And if it happens to snow, then sometimes that alone is enough. Creativity and inspiration do not keep schedules, nor do they know about holidays or breaks. What you must do is always be ready. You never know where, how, or when a story will begin.

15.11.2025

What Inspires Me to Write

Inspiration can be found everywhere — in an image, in a conversation, in a random moment of everyday life.
Sometimes, a simple walk around the neighborhood can spark a story. Other times, it is a book, a movie, or a musical melody that opens the way to new thoughts.
For me, writing is a way to capture those small fragments of life that would otherwise be lost over time. It is an effort to give voice to emotions that are difficult to express in any other way.
Perhaps the greatest source of inspiration is people themselves — their stories, their joys, and their struggles. Through them, I always find something new to say, something new to write.

15.10.2025

When Technology Touches Creation

So, the time has come when technology makes a powerful entrance into literature.
All of us who engage—some more, some less—in artistic creation would love to keep the beauty of creativity untouched by AI.
But is that even possible? I wonder…
The problem, however, becomes even more serious as more and more people rely on laptops or smartphones—so much so that we risk, if it hasn’t happened already, forgetting how to write by hand.
And this issue concerns future generations even more deeply, as they might not need to write at all.
Perhaps it’s time we reconsider our relationship with technology—before it’s too late.

The advance of technology is inevitable. We cannot avoid it — only delay it.

https://www.scientificamerican.com/article/why-writing-by-hand-is-better-for-memory-and-learning/?utm_source=chatgpt.com

15.09.2025

The Beginning of a Journey into Writing

Since I can remember, stories have accompanied me. Small narratives, snapshots of everyday life, and thoughts that demanded to become words on paper.
Writing is not just a process; it is a journey. A journey that teaches you to observe the world with different eyes, to discover new facets of yourself, and to share emotions with others.
With this blog, I want to open a small window into my path. To share moments, thoughts, and even small excerpts from works that are being prepared or still hidden in drawers.
I look forward to sharing this journey together.