I’ve something of a confession: I dream of meeting a fellow who can (and occasionally will) pen me a letter.
I told you she’s too picky!
Come now, let’s not be rude. It’s not the end all of a relationship. Nor is it quite as captious as it may sound.
After all, perfect penmanship or scribbles; fine paper or pages torn from the notepad of a hotel room, I care not. I’d even be willing to overlook the occasional misspelling or grammatical gaffe. For you see, it’s not the accoutrements or skill that makes a handwritten letter so precious, but the heart behind the words.
It’s someone taking the time to write out his thoughts, without relying on emoticons to get it done.
It’s something to hold in your hands, something to look back upon, when the going gets rough.
It’s a legacy to pass on to future generations, a clue—so this is what love looks like.
Romantic, sure; but words penned to paper–to friends and lovers, read now and in the future–contain a certain magic. From the purest of poetry to everyday discourse, letters give pause; they bring us closer; they may make us think or make us smitten; they may make us smile, laugh . . . or blush.
May they never go (completely) out of fashion.