.
This text was not born merely as a reflection,
but as a passage.
It is the result of a constant unrest
that has challenged logic and reason,
crystallizing, over time,
a profound sentiment —
as old as humanity itself —
echoing through memories, silences,
and absences that have shaped the human experience across civilizations.
Within its lines, there is something that goes beyond an attempt to define longing —
there is a quiet effort to engage
with the very mystery of existence.
If, at times, language feels insufficient,
it is because longing dwells in a realm
where words only graze
what the soul already understands in silence.
This is not a text to be merely read,
but to be walked through.
May each reader, as they move through its lines,
seek not only to understand —
but above all, to recognize themselves.
For perhaps, in the end,
what is found will not be answers,
but something even rarer:
a quiet consolation,
born from the silent meeting between memory, time,
and that which, though absent,
remains.
.
Longing
In the serene resignation of what has passed,
arises the attempt to describe longing
beyond pain and tears.
A reflection that dares to go beyond words.
Longing is, perhaps, one of the deepest and most subtle experiences of the human condition.
It is not merely the absence of something or someone,
but the silent presence of what once was —
or of what, in silence, we still yearn to become.
It lives in the space between memory and desire,
between what was lived
and what, though deeply felt,
never fully touched reality.
There is, within longing, a quiet paradox:
it warms, yet wounds;
it comforts, yet unsettles;
it brings us closer to what we love,
while also revealing the vastness of distance.
At times, it is born from what once existed
and dissolved in the inevitable flow of time.
At others, it emerges from what never came to be —
from paths not taken,
from dreams left suspended
in the delicate realm of possibility.
It is also the thought of those lost
in the vastness of the cosmos…
or of those still present in the material world,
who allowed their souls to drift away,
never fully understanding
the meanings that once united us.
It is, at times, the silent memory of pain that struck the innocent —
of one who, without understanding the reason for the cruelty that reached them, gathered within themselves the fragments of darkened days, recording in the silence of the soul
what could never be explained.
It is the silent desire to reach out —and no longer find what to touch.
And so, longing becomes this invisible companion,
walking with us through the corridors of memory and expectation,
whispering fragments of who we once were
and echoes of who we might still have been.
Perhaps longing is, in essence,
the soul’s attempt to reconcile itself with time.
Among the many ways to describe it,
in the search to reach the sacred and the profound
at the limits of consciousness,
one might say — with eloquence, despair, and serenity —
that longing is, in its essence:
A force that seeks to reunite,
insisting on overcoming absence.
A persistent illusion
through which memory tries to make present what no longer is.
A refusal of distance
in an endless pursuit of the impossible.
An existential and historical mark,
engraved in the soul as testimony of what was lived —
or dreamed.
The manifestation of memory
trying to restore form to what was lost.
The desire to feel at home
in every place — and yet fully in none.
The sensation of a presence
that cannot be reached by the senses.
A yearning that insists on possessing
what only ever touched the soul.
The real anguish of absence.
A feeling shaped as poetry,
that tears within itself
in the attempt to bring closer
what time and space have separated.
The silent calvary of deep love
when it no longer finds where to rest.
A presence that cannot be ignored
nor fully answered —
thus becoming an absolute force.
An unspeakable suffering
that suffocates the being
in its attempt to understand absence.
The intimate cry of the soul
longing to bring back those who have gone —
and who, having fulfilled the designs of the universe,
remain only in the invisible dimension of feeling.
A void that no word can fill.
The most absolute expression of absence
that, paradoxically,
insists on remaining.
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