A year ago, I was naked at 2:30 a.m. and holding hands on a bridge with a guy I cared greatly for. After convincing each other that we would be fine, we jumped into the dark, dark water 15 feet or so below us. Now, I'm getting packages of stuff he's had of mine and failed to return. It's comical because half of it I don't even remember loaning him.
But it's not the only mail I've received as of late. And certainly not the best either.
The letters I've read in the last few days were exceptional. Letters, in general, are great. I think I know why, too -- it's because that person takes a chunk out of his or her time to sit down and actually writes it. Applying postage and sending it also requires effort -- enough where mail can seem like a chore.
I often write a lot of letters that I don't send. I never intend to. Sometimes I'm thinking of something I'd like to talk a particular person about, so I write to him or her as if we were talking. I think one day, I'll bundle them up and just leave them somewhere or actually send them to the respective "owners."
The point is, receiving mail reminds me of how much love is actually circulating in my life and how endlessly thankful I am for it every time I realize it.
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1 comment:
I know the feeling. I once wrote a couple letters for a friend who doing some hard time for selling coke, but I never mailed them. He's out of jail, and I lost the letters. Then again, maybe it's not so similar.
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