The World Is a Shared Poem

We arrived at Hagia Sophia in the early morning. The crowds hadn't fully gathered yet, but tour groups were already flowing in. Guides spoke into microphones, flashes flickered, domes were photographed.

Everyone looked up.

In a corner, away from the crowd, stood a column that others kept passing by. Standing there since 532 AD. A piece of marble that had survived the reign of Justinian, the conquest, fires, and earthquakes. No one looked at it because it was too close — our eyes had grown accustomed to distance.

I stopped.

I pressed my palm slowly against the surface. The stone was cold. It always was. But it was real — that moment belonged to it, to me, to us. When the lines of my palm met that surface, something happened: time shortened. The distance between 532 and 2026 narrowed to the width of a hand.

There was no sign saying "Do Not Touch." People weren't touching anyway. No glass case, no rope, no barrier — just habit. The habit of "look, but don't touch." The habit of keeping distance. The habit of holding the past behind glass.

We broke that habit. Quietly. Smiling. Looking at each other.

The world is not a showcase. It is a shared poem. And with one touch, we entered it.