My dearest friend, you may find it odd that I write to you. You may even find it strange considering my usual demeanour.
Don’t.
I am writing to complain. You see, I fear we have come to a miscommunication resulting from a language barrier. As you know, and my accent gives it away, I am not from the UK. I am Portuguese born and raised, and I carry that culture in my heart. We, the Portuguese, invented the word Saudade.It’s a longing, a grateful memory, a sorrow for missing someone. I don’t apply saudade to stuff, it’s too important to be objectified like that.
From here I can see you frown, squinting to the page wondering what that could possibly have to do with your career as a gun for hire.
It’s quite simple. In my language you don’t take the feeling of saudade away from someone. You kill it. “Matar saudades” is literally a murder of that feeling. We don’t just want it gone, we want it to cease to exist altogether. We wish for it to be stripped from our heart, taken out of sight and shot dead.
And you, calling yourself the greatest assassin that ever lived, don’t seem able to grasp this concept.
Until we meet again,
— Your Friend
Photo by Alex Ivashenko on Unsplash
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