Nostalgia

Eu queria dizer muita, muita coisa. Escrever longas e belas frases. E sinto-me incapaz de fazê-lo. Dizem-me que consegum sentir perfeitamente o que eu escrevo: existe tanto sentimento à flor da pele, tanta coisa que sai de mim e as pessoas conseguem sentir o que escrevo.
Sinto raiva. As pessoas sentem-na.
Sinto-me confuso. As pessoas entendem-no e sentem-no.
Sinto desejo. As pessoas entendem-no. Sentem-no. Talvez o próprio, enlevado pelas minhas palavras.
Está uma tarde quente e de sol. Bebi um café com a minha tia, na esplanada perto de casa dela. O sol quente de começos de Primavera, fins de Inverno sabe tão bem. Adoro o frio, mas não gosto menos do Sol e do calor.
Andam esperanças a rondar a minha alma. E na esperança, corre sempre um gosto nostálgico, uma saudade do que já foi. Saudade de mim. Saudade daqueles que já não estão por cá. Por muita esperança que haja, haverá sempre aquele gosto agridoce na bocae na alma.
Eu queria dizer e escrever tanta coisa... mas há alturas em que parece inútil.

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