you've got mail
I love letters, birthday cards, Christmas cards and postcards of any kind. I've kept every single one i've received for 10 years already. More than 300 of them. Tonight i finally found the time to pack all of them nicely into my new ikea cardboard boxes. And like anyone who sorts out old letters and cards, i began to open some of them up to read.
The spoken word seems to morph into a totally different creature when they are on ink and paper. Certain phrases have a personal imprint of their own. 14 year old scrawlings of 'best of friends' remind me of nothing more than lost innocence, some (but not all) 'always here for you's becomes cruelly ironic now, 'thank you' speaks of 2 hour phone calls, weekend movies and Swensons earthquakes.
I couldn't help crying when i read the countless cards from Jas and PY. I missed them so much. It still bloody hurts sometimes. They are moving, and i'm packing. There's too much to put in storage with them, too much to box and tape up. Cute nicknames, girly hangouts, our Sunday mornings on benches with hot tea, watching the world pass us by. Jas whispering to me in the middle of sermons, "i want to eat ban mian" and i go "i want tomyam soup". PY coming to my house in the middle of the night to bring me fruits and encouragement.
Those letters remind me of that, of what we no longer have. They are skeletons, with joints and attachments that keep us anchored to our pasts. Some say that letters are limited in its expression, preferring real-life conversations and phone calls. Maybe they are, but still, those wrinkly pieces of paper are beautiful within their constraints. And at least they are more permanent than conversations and promises that have long faded into the soil of our memories.
The spoken word seems to morph into a totally different creature when they are on ink and paper. Certain phrases have a personal imprint of their own. 14 year old scrawlings of 'best of friends' remind me of nothing more than lost innocence, some (but not all) 'always here for you's becomes cruelly ironic now, 'thank you' speaks of 2 hour phone calls, weekend movies and Swensons earthquakes.
I couldn't help crying when i read the countless cards from Jas and PY. I missed them so much. It still bloody hurts sometimes. They are moving, and i'm packing. There's too much to put in storage with them, too much to box and tape up. Cute nicknames, girly hangouts, our Sunday mornings on benches with hot tea, watching the world pass us by. Jas whispering to me in the middle of sermons, "i want to eat ban mian" and i go "i want tomyam soup". PY coming to my house in the middle of the night to bring me fruits and encouragement.
Those letters remind me of that, of what we no longer have. They are skeletons, with joints and attachments that keep us anchored to our pasts. Some say that letters are limited in its expression, preferring real-life conversations and phone calls. Maybe they are, but still, those wrinkly pieces of paper are beautiful within their constraints. And at least they are more permanent than conversations and promises that have long faded into the soil of our memories.
Labels: introspection
