Feeling longing for what was never ours is like crying over a dream that never dared to be born.
It is nostalgia for a time that never ran through the clock, an echo of footsteps that never touched the ground of reality.
It is a feeling made of mist and silence, a tapestry embroidered with threads of desire and absence.
This longing is a broken mirror where a thousand versions of a past that never existed are reflected —
a past invented by a soul hungry for meaning, for presence, for a touch that never came.
It is hope dressed in mourning, the heart writing letters to a destiny that never replied.
There is a sweet madness in this insane longing —the kind one feels for lives not lived, for loves that existed only in the space between two sighs.
It is a flame that burns without ever being lit, a fire that consumes without leaving ashes.
The mind, accomplice of the heart, recreates moments with the precision of an intoxicated poetess, and each invented memory becomes more real than any truth.
It is the desperate desire for the return of something that never left, the yearning for an embrace that never happened, for eyes that never met.
This longing weighs on the body — it becomes insomnia, anxiety, a fatigue that has no explanation.
It is time pausing to listen to the lament of a nameless absence.
One does not live to be noticed, but so that one’s absence may echo like thunder in the silence of others.
Distance, that sculptor of feelings, does to emotions what the wind does to fire: it extinguishes the small ones and inflames the great ones. And so we go on, sailing without a compass through seas of obscurity,
until the leaves of the soul fall, exhausted, in the autumn of hope.
Insane longing, I have nothing to offer you but the weariness of existing in vain, of having touched only the shadow of what could have been.
My fingers intertwined with the mist,and in the emptiness I found the essence of abandonment.
I shall remain alone, like sailboats anchored in forgotten harbors, waiting for winds that will never come.
For there are longings that have no name —they simply live within us, like storms that never cease.
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