January 3, 2017 § Leave a comment
There was a time that I wrote letters.
The thoughts seemed to flow out willingly then. I was generous in words but never superfluous. I committed myself to a thought before I wrote it down. I never fawned, but neither was I curt. I was definitely verbose, yet how could I not be? I didn’t want to regret not being able to say what should have been said. And to me at that point in time, most things should be.
Then I grew up, faced the impermanence of relationships, and witnessed reality like they never used to write of. Or perhaps I just had never read of before. Suddenly, some things didn’t seem to matter. I love you at this moment, but I’m aware of the possibility that I might not on the next. Should you still know how I feel right now? I wasn’t sure anymore. I was hurt by disappointments and let down by people I loved. People I wrote to. And eventually, they just became people I would have written to. Would it matter to them if I bothered? Does it matter to me? One day, I just started taking the easy route of answering “no”.
Other things occupied my time as well. I could rarely afford the clarity that helped me reach my thoughts in the past. One could argue that I made less effort to have that. I start paragraphs, and end them in drafts. Or the trash.
I have also reached greater depths in my ruminations about life, humanity, love and spirituality. Some are too uncomfortable to be written and the idealist in me tries to shut them down. At least not write it down. It affects my ability to write, as I disdain the idea of me writing fodder.
But time and again, I am gripped by the desire to write to people who profoundly, or even just gently, affect my life. Not just because I need to tell them, but because I’ve always believed that some people actually need them. I’ve always fancied being an instrument to a person’s realization about themselves. To help them see the goodness that they’re not aware of. Not all letters are easy to write though. Some fill you up, but some drain your soul. I guess it’s writing enough happy ones to have enough heart to write the hard ones.
This year will be a time I write letters.