Goodbye, Emmanuel Santiago

I met Emmanuel when I was still a teenager — an awkward kid, full of acne, and filled with a curiosity that never seemed to leave me. It must have been around four in the afternoon, on some idle Tuesday in 2002. I remember the place clearly: the old Cyber Café in São Lourenço.

Back then, internet access was still rare. Cyber cafés were everywhere — places full of computers where you paid to spend a little time online and, almost always, drink bad coffee. Between the machines, there were tables occupied by people playing Magic: The Gathering, RPGs, and having long conversations about imaginary worlds.

That was where I saw him for the first time.

There were three boys. One had long hair and looked like a rock guy. Another had a strong presence. And then there was a third one — thin, strange, somehow out of place, as if he did not quite fit with the other two.

That was Emmanuel.

Naturally, he was the one with the strongest voice, the sharpest criticism, and the widest knowledge.

I approached them, and friendship came quickly, the way some friendships do when we recognize something in another person before we even know how to name it.

For the next three years, Emmanuel and I were almost inseparable. I was constantly impressed by how much he read, by how much he knew, and by the passion with which he spoke about ideas, books, authors, symbols, and entire worlds. Believe me: much of the voracious reading habit I still carry today was born from that friendship.

Years later, Emmanuel would become a writer and a literature teacher. But before that, he was my friend. And as my friend, he taught me things I still carry with deep and immeasurable affection.

He taught me about theosophy, demonology, occultism, Brazilian literature, classical literature, Russian literature, the Gothic movement, movements from here, movements from there. And I remember very clearly how much I enjoyed listening to him explain who the Marquis de Sade was.

Man, I learned so much.

But life does not stop. It follows its course, indifferent to our wish to remain close to the people we love. And today I dedicate this text to a great friend who has passed away. A friend I spoke to one day before his last surgery. A friend who had made it clear on Facebook that he was not entirely confident he would return.

Well, Emmanuel.

I remember.

I remember everything.

And today, especially today, I will remember you.

Emmanuel was a writer. He was a poet. And in some way, he left this world as poets often do: leaving behind an absence full of words.

Goodbye, Emmanuel.

The more time slips away,
the less there is to recall:

the ember of that desire
melted in the cold night air,
not even ash remained at all

(a thin rain was falling,
made of bright, transparent sparks).

When the sun chose to shine,
night had returned once more,
and lobotomized birds
forgot what songs were for.

The names of flowers were lost,
and Spring,
impoverished,
sells crepe-paper ornaments.

Goodbye...