Hey. I miss you.

“Have you ever missed someone you’ve never met?”

I have heard this several people asking this question, but by “people” I mean soon-to-be mothers on TV dramas. I have the same question in my head now, and no, before anyone asked, I’m nowhere near those figures on the said TV dramas.

There are like a gazillion people in this whole wide world.
What if someone meant to be for you is somewhere, half a world away?
And you’ve never met this person.
Maybe you will never meet this person.

A bit sad, don’t you think?

I stumbled upon the word “saudade” a few months ago.
According to Wikipedia:

Saudade is a word in Portuguese and Galician (from which it entered Spanish) that claims no direct translation in English. In Portuguese, “Tenho saudades tuas” (European Portuguese) or “Tenho saudades de você” (Brazilian Portuguese), translates as “I have (feel) saudade of you” meaning “I miss you”, but carries a much stronger tone.

Might have an idea on why this word is now stuck in my head, but that’s not anything I would say out loud for the time being. It’s a melancholic word, a poetic one – something that’s not easily translated. I asked a native Portuguese about this word and he spent a good 5-minute just trying to explain it to me (thanks man).

It’s more to something nostalgic.

Now back to the original questions.
Is it possible to feel nostalgic about something you’ve never experienced?
Have you ever feel like missing something without knowing what it is you’re actually missing?

A recent movie by Makoto Shinkai called “Kimi no na wa” (“Your name”) is asking the same thing several times when I watched it. It’s a feeling you can’t explain, not a bad one, but the one reminding you of something that you might have never had.

Have you felt it before?
Or do you think this is just another mad ramble?

I have.
I still do.

Hey. I miss you.
I know, I miss you too.



C10H14N2, the sequel.

Prompt from here.
A recorded rant for those who are still in search for love in a hopeless place.

A man smokes a cigarette on the pavement outside his office in Paris

‘Your room reeks.’
‘I know, sorry.’
‘I thought you don’t smoke?’
‘I don’t.’
‘Ah. Must be your clothes. You met him, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, but this… this is not because of him.’
‘What? How do you know?’
‘I can only tolerate one type of cig. Not this one.’
‘That’s… romantic.’

The conversation rang like a fire drill inside my head ever since I had it.

Adults and kiddos, ladies and gents and everyone in between, let’s face this now: we live in an era where romance is not about whispering sweet words into someone’s ear, nor about throwing rocks at someone’s window in the middle of the night, and least of all about taking poisons just because you both come from families in dispute (oops).

Are we saying goodbye to good old chivalries?
I don’t think so. Not completely.

People still do that. It’s just that some people started to get different ideas of what romance is. Some think it’s about a simple good morning text. Some think it’s about sparing 20 minutes for a coffee in the middle of work. My friend, apparently, thinks the fact that I can only tolerate one type of cigarette a part of romance.

Me? I’m inexperienced. That was what he told me.

And no – we’re not talking about what you might think it is. It’s simply a matter of knowing if someone was right for you or not (yes, I can hear you clearly – you, the one who shouted “LAME!” by the back).

He said that I might like him because I don’t know what’s good for me and what’s not.
Personally speaking? I do. He just doesn’t know about how I refer to him as potato chips to my peers.

Why chips? you asked. Why not… cupcakes?
Well, it doesn’t have to be chips, really. It can be MSG. It can be a bucket of fried chicken. It can be that extra slice of cake. When I write I prefer to use the term LSD 25 – which is not 100% accurate but hey! Let’s not get technical here. If it’s too much for you, though, let’s get this straight. What do they have in common?

Potato chips. MSG. Fried chicken. Cake. LSD 25.
You know it’s not good for you, but once you discovered how good it tastes you just keep adding more and more of it to the suggested dose.
A bit of it? It’s recreational. A lot of it? It’s suicidal.

Well, what do you know – maybe taking in a lot of those chips is also considered as romance by that friend of mine. Isn’t it a bit like Shakespearean time? Slowly killing yourself for something you thought is love, all the while being plain stupid – because it’s voluntary.

One quick question before I end this pointless rant though.
The idea of romance: will you let this guilty pleasure kill you?


In response of this prompt.

‘Aren’t you proud of what you’ve done?’

I looked down to the iced Americano on the table, not being able to answer. From my point of view nothing seemed to go well by that time. Chaos, mess, and disorder – much like the traffic outside the coffeeshop we were in – he had done an excellent job pointing them out in every single thing I have conducted so far. No reason to say yes here.

He waited.
I swallowed.

An honest reply almost rolled out of my tongue when he continued. ‘For me, I’m proud of you.’

I looked up instantly.
‘Really,’ he quickly added.

…well that’s a first.

True story.

A rather surprising moment if I thought about it, but it wasn’t really something you hear often from anyone (excluding family members who will probably say that even when you pour H2SO4 over their flowerbed in the name of science).

Have you had it?
The time when someone set aside your flaws for a second, recap all the efforts and changes you have made throughout the times, and take a moment to say it out loud?

For me, luckily enough, I have.
He was my mentor, so I’ve been telling myself it’s probably just for the sake of keeping me from quitting.

Never had the guts to ask whether he meant what he said.
Nope. Not ready for it.
Later, maybe, if I reached a day when I don’t have to see him regularly anymore. Or if I got drunk enough. But not now. Definitely not now.

For now, I’m just going to bask in this assumption and do what I can do with what I have.

PS. if you had said that to someone else before, bless you
PPS. if by any chance you’re my mentor who stumbled upon this page and somehow found out this is me, let’s pretend this post doesn’t exist

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In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Inspiration.”

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In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Muse.”

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