Tenho saudades do cheiro dos cabelos da minha mãe e do casaco do meu pai.
Tenho saudades do meu quintal à noite e do céu estrelado sob o qual chorava e ria e lia e sonhava e duvidava.
Tenho saudades do cheiro do mar. Do som do mar. Do mar na minha pele, na minha boca, ensurdecedor.
Tenho saudades de ir àquele café, o nosso café, todas as semanas, sem falta. Chocar o mundo com a nossa alegria. O ritual.
Tenho saudades do pão.
Tenho saudades dos meus livros.
Tenho saudades do sabor da nossa Fanta e Coca-Cola.
Tenho saudades de ir ao cinema no Fórum. Saudades de nos reconhecerem e de nos sorrirem e de nos tentarem fazer rir, ali entre chegar ao balcão e levar o bilhete.
Tenho saudades da minha banheira, do meu sofá, do chão da minha sala, da minha almofada.
Tenho saudades de ver televisão com o meu irmão e de nos rirmos juntos. "João, ‘tá a dar os Simpsons!"
Tenho saudades de reescrever os Morangos com Açúcar enquanto passavam no café.
Tenho saudades dos cheiros da minha vida passada. Aqui tudo cheira alienígena, cruel, diferente.
Tenho saudades da indecisão no emprego na hora de almoçar fora e da fila para o microondas na hora de almoçar dentro. Do nosso riso colectivo. De reuniões barulhentas. De clientes tresloucados. De sermos diferentes mas sermos iguais.
Tenho saudades de escolhermos o DVD e comprarmos as comidas menos recomendáveis e fazermos da minha casa a nossa casa, o nosso covil. Planeávamos tomar conta do mundo e acabávamos a dormir no sofá.
Tenho saudades da minha secretária. Ambas.
Tenho saudades das gargalhadas do meu pai a ver a novela das 6 (diferente, sempre igual).
Tenho saudades da comida da minha mãe.
Tenho saudades de me sentir dona e senhora do mundo. O meu mundo.
Aqui o mundo ainda é deles. Mas há-de ser meu.
"She was a poet living in a castle-like apartment flooded with plants and books I’d never heard of. The details of her exotic childhood, I learned, included an organic farm in rural Texas and a private girls’ school. She did origami and left it hidden for strangers to find, knew the secrets of library basements and overgrown alleyways, and wore vintage hats covered in rusty brooches. She was into queer theory. She got her clothes from the Goodwill Dumpster. She was everything I’d dreamed of but never knew existed."
"A year after we’d met, just as I was getting a handle on Ursula K. Le Guin and Anne Carson, she called me: Would I like her bicycle? She’d bought a one-way ticket to Japan."
"By June I was at Peking University studying Mandarin on an open-jaw airline ticket; six weeks later the program ended and I was standing in Tiananmen Square. And to my disbelief she was there, too, standing next to me, flying a makeshift kite. By then she had quit her Japanese job and come to Beijing with her teenage brother. Her plan was for the three of us to take the Trans-Siberian Railway to Moscow and sort of wing it from there."
"Nights were hard. She was inevitably inches away, sleeping peacefully as my desire for her boiled."
"She laughed and played with my hair, knowing it was true but not wanting to show it. The shrine I had already built for her was painfully exposed; in two years my mainstream existence had been razed to the ground to make room for a garden in which her every eccentricity was welcomed to bloom. What was I doing in Mongolia? It seemed I would follow her anywhere."
"As I turned my back on her at the first major fork in the road, I was grudgingly conscious of a painful realization: My life was not one of one-way tickets. Not yet."