By Apostolos Kotsampasis

I used to mock clichés. “Time flies.” “Life is made of moments.” “You don’t appreciate what you have until you lose it.” We laughed at them in our student circles, sketching out lives that would challenge such banal truths. Whenever our parents spoke about time, health, or love – as if reading from some worn-out self-help pamphlet – we smiled ironically, turning Billy Idol up full blast on our Sony Walkman.

We were twenty: invincible, brimming with energy, radiant, wild, in low-rise jeans and borrowed confidence. Fate was just the name of a cocktail on the bar menu.

But time – that relentless personal trainer – has a different opinion. The personal turning point arrives with a phone call, at an irrelevant hour. Suddenly, it feels as if the elevator cables have snapped.

Along the way, the clichés didn’t arrive with fanfare. They simply took a seat at the table where I had reserved places for different guests. Quietly and inevitably. And then, at last, you lower the volume. Life, stripped of noise, is the ultimate form of luxury – priceless, non-refundable, and exactly now.

And there it is: a perfect espresso at 9:12 in the morning, the effortless smile of a stranger, the warm touch of sunlight.

Life’s clichés are not funny. They never lied. They are its operating system. In the end, you order another drink, take a sip, and admit it: they were right all along.