it's 11:48, i am listening to music, and i feel like writing a letter to someone.
i want to handwrite something beautiful, fold it in thirds, slide it into an envelope, stick on a stamp, put it in the mail, and have it arrive at a friend's house to their joy, and to receive a lovely handwritten letter back.
in this world, however, it seems that letter-writing is a lost art. and, sadly, i think i may have given up on it as well. instant gratification is our new art.
but i do want to write a letter, and so i will write it to you, my reader, as if i had written you a real letter.
how are you? i think about you often. i find it hard not to, in fact; but then again, i think about a lot of people a lot of the time. (don't think this does not mean you are special. of course you are special. there are plenty of people that i forget about, as sad as that is.) it makes me wonder how often you may think of me, or if you think of me at all. it's fine either way, really. some people are forgetters and some are not. i do not blame you either way. and if you have forgotten me, i am sure there is someone out there who may allow me to take a stroll through their thoughts every once in awhile.
i am writing you just to talk. i could call you, i guess, or contact you in some other manner, but i wanted to write you a letter. i wanted you to see my bad penmanship and understand that i tried to make it better for your sake. i wanted you to see my ambition at keeping my writing legible fail towards the end of the letter. i wanted you to know that i at least tried. i also wanted you to feel connected to me in the way that you can hear my voice in your head right now, and i am not even speaking. letters are sort of odd in that way, the way that they carry people on paper, but i don't mind it all. i find it rather pretty.
i was going to write you a poem, but i ran out of nice little thoughts for you. i instead present you with a page full of prose.
have you read any good books lately? i made a list the other day of all the books i'd like to read in the next year, and it's quite long. there are about twenty at this point, and i'm sure i'll add more. i'm partially through about four or five right now, but it seems i never finish anything. i hope your literary life is faring better than mine.
i've been a bit caught up in working and living and trying to get my world organized for moving, so i apologize if our correspondence has been scarce. but please write back. i promise i won't let you fall to the side. it's sad when a dear friend such as yourself gets lost in the absurdity that is daily living. so keep in touch.
all my love.