I read my latest post, after almost 2 years of absence. I could hardly recognize the person writing. Angry and sharp. I am not that angry anymore. Or that sharp.

I feel quite meek and domesticated. Sometimes it becomes too much.

I used to hate the police. With passion and for a reason.
Now, having lived in England for the past 2 years, having made a "home" in a quiet neighbourhood, having had the same job for almost the same time, feels like my revolutionary fire has been put out. If there ever was one burning.

I know I liked to think so, but I'm not sure that was the case. I wished I could go out, full of rage and fury, join a march, a protest, shout out loud and be a rebel against all the rotten institutions we call society; but I didn't. Not even when I lived back in Greece when chances were abundant.

I might have got it wrong the whole revolutionary thing though. Cause what is revolution now, for me? Is it necessary to join the angry mob? Is it necessary to fuel action with fury?
Revolution has to be personal. "Soul rebel" like Bob says. But I guess that's what I'm afraid of. That I've lost this revolutionary streak as well. Fed from all the ASDA trips, the training days at work, the TV shows, the steady paycheck, the comforting security, my reactionary self gained weight, width and breadth and slouches and "can't be bovvered".

It's sad some days. Some days I don't fight back, I don't resist. Others I am trying to find out where I've gone. How can I have become so ... mild, so colourless?

Things have changed, I have changed. What are my dreams now? I don't even know if I have any. Now I've got plans. A bit ironic. A few years back, I thought of plans as a bad thing, limiting creativity and possibilities. I believed that things ahead coming without planning are even better, even more exciting and greater than planned schemes. But someone once told me about goal setting. And I heard her. I really let her words seep in. I gave her truth a chance, a trial. Didn't change right away, but I guess that listening that night caught up with me eventually and bloomed when it found the rich soil of giving in. Giving in to the inevitability of conforming, of fitting in.

It's strange how all words, notions more specifically, have one meaning but so many different colours. You can "give in" and it can be a good thing, making you soft and accepting, or you can "give in" and be untrue to yourself, to your deepest held beliefs.

Maybe it's a superficial diagnosis, maybe it's a cliche and maybe it's completely wrong -I will know about it only later- but I do feel it has to do with growing up and growing older. Other things that didn't take up quite so much of my attention and my thinking time, now are in the daily order.

Like worrying about things I have no control over. Like realizing the fragility of existence, but not using this understanding as a springboard to live more fully but as a chain to keep me in safe waters,safe choices.
And I feel I've lost the poetry as well, the ability to think and express in abstract, ambiguous ways. Ways that leave so much room for interpretation.

It's a good day today. Or so I label it.