Or something like that wasn’t it anyway. I forget the art of writing. I want a handwritten letter in my mail box. There is a letter that could have been in my mailbox, but I have been told it is not going to find itself there ever. I don’t understand but I accept.
With a devious plan in mind, I express to my best friend that I have been deprived of a love letter all my life. I never had a lover when people still wrote letters and since I fell in love no one writes letters any more. He tilted his head and smiled, melting my heart away. A smile full of knowing and caring and understanding. A smile full of promises, I know will never be fulfilled.
Don’t they say be careful what you wish for? I did receive a handwritten letter. For a split second I could only hope. Very very small second. Reality hit soon enough. My mother wrote me a letter. I didn’t think she ever had the patience to write one. I guess she is trying to maintain a tradition I had lost a while ago. I was left sad and devastated for a bit, but then I realized that this itself could be a message. A clear bold one at that.
So I decided to compose a letter that might start a lasting tradition of it’s own. In stead I find myself here… may be this is where I need to keep writing..