I struggled with the word. It lingered, soft yet insistent, waiting to be understood. Deafening — yet silent. Sharp — yet delicate. Crude in its rawness, yet rich with meaning, as though it had carried the weight of centuries while remaining as fresh as the morning air. Saudade.
It is not merely a word but a feeling that breathes within, settling beneath the ribs, winding through the marrow of the bones, pressing gently against the skin from within. A presence intricately woven from absence. A longing that does not mourn but remembers, does not grieve but honours. For saudade is not only about what was, but also about what might have been — the beauty of imagined possibilities, the tenderness of dreams not yet lived.
And yet, it is a gift. However much it pulls at the soul, however much it calls us back. I could neither reject it nor escape it, for it had taken root in me, filling empty spaces with warmth rather than ache. The more I welcomed it, the more it flourished — not like ivy clinging to memory, but like a soft wind lifting past and future into the present. A quiet assurance that even that which has not yet come to pass may still belong to us, carried in the heart, shaping the days ahead.
For what choice is there but to cherish it? Saudade is not merely a word; it is a bridge between the known and the unknown, a whisper of all that has touched us — even if only in thought. It is proof that we have felt deeply, loved without boundaries, and dreamt with an open heart. And though it may stir something unspoken within, I hold onto it — for to do so is to hold onto hope itself.
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