What Happened to Writing Letters?

What happened to writing letters?

It seems sweet to think that once, not long ago, people would sit down with the intention to start a conversation by writing something and sending it via the mail.

They let their pens weep in their fingertips, spilling out thoughts dressed as ink, on paper willing to soak in their stories.

There is something so intimate about reading someone else’s handwriting.

In an age where we talk from our fingertips, and are so in love with our own voices, it is strange to think that something so simple as one’s handwriting can be alien to who we consider close.

And in a world where we are so desperate to be recognized, so hungry to be heard that we lust for other people’s confirmation that our opinion has mattered.

Why would one take such a risk.

For there was no knowing whether their letter had sent.

Whether it arrived safely.

Whether they read it.

No knowledge of if they wrote you one in return.

It’s a lot of faith to put in one man riding a motorcycle.

 

I had a girl write me a letter once.

It was in the form of a poem.

It had no rhythm, and unorganized rhymes.

As if the lyrics couldn’t quite fit the song.

But I read her writing as if it were life itself.

And wondered what I did to deserve something so personal as this.

It was as if I were reading a side of her people rarely got to see.

Speaking words that I never thought I would deserve.

Of a boy I never thought I could be.

I don’t think she knows how much those words meant.

For when I live in worlds that exist entirely in my mind, and pen my dreams onto paper.

It shocks me to think that someone took the risk to write words down.

With no knowledge of whether they sent.

Whether they were received.

And whether they were read.

And told me with the intimacy of their own handwriting.

That to them, I matter.

Then perhaps this letter proved me wrong when I tell myself.

That I am worthless.

And if a letter can do that, then tell me this.

What happened to writing letters?