Where have you been all my life" ou "The end of time"

"Where have you been?
'Cause I never see you out
Are you hiding from me, yeah?
Somewhere in the crowd
[Yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah]

Where have you been?
All my life, all my li-i-i-i-ife...
Where have you been, all my li-i-i-ife?" - Rihanna (Where have you been)

Today’s post is entirely in English—perhaps because I’ve been missing it more than usual this week.

I miss the novels that only Anne Rice could ever write, with their velvet darkness and lingering sorrow. I miss the spectral singing of Welsh witches, as though their voices were carried through corridors unseen, echoing like a memory that does not belong to this world. I miss the icy culture that once embraced me—cold, yes, but intimate in its silence, like frost tracing delicate patterns upon a forgotten window.

Yet tonight, these absences do not merely visit me—they inhabit me. Like the crumbling halls of The Fall of the House of Usher, my thoughts seem to echo within themselves, each memory a chamber, each longing a fissure spreading quietly through the walls of my being. There is a stillness here, oppressive and tender all at once, as if something long buried stirs beneath the surface, waiting to be named.

And I miss him.

The one who carried himself away to lands of snow—yet it feels less like departure and more like a slow vanishing, as though he dissolved into the pale horizon. His friendship, his love, were not merely present; they were structural, like the very foundations of a house now left to decay. Without them, something in me leans, fractures, listens too closely to the silence.

There are moments in which I almost hear him still—like a distant footstep in an empty corridor, or a whisper that trembles just before it fades. And I wonder: is it memory, or is it the echo of something that refuses to die?

So I remain here, wandering through these inner chambers, where longing seeps into the walls and the air itself feels heavy with remembrance. And like that ancient house, suspended between presence and ruin, I endure—haunted not by ghosts, but by what once lived so vividly within me.

"Come, take my hand
I won't let you go
I'll be your friend
I will love you so deeply
I will be the one
To kiss you at night
I will love you
Until the end of time

I'll be your baby
I promise not to let you go
Love you like crazy
I say you'll never let me go"' - Beyoncé (End of Time)