If there is anything in the world I would like (and love, and adore) right now, it is for someone to write to me.
To physically write to me. I know it’s unheard of in this era of Apple and Blackberry, but the sentiment is still there, nevertheless, immortalized in space in time. I know paper degrades, but there’s always the option of paper lamination. Though I won’t do that, because I like to watch paper ‘age’ and yellow, instead of looking as shiny and new as I… age and yellow myself. Plus, sure, the Internet is virtually forever, but really, there’s not much apparent effort seen. SMSes can -and need to- be discarded for want of more memory space. Somehow, when I see a love letter, I feel its personal quality reach straight to my heart, the words strung together with heartfelt warmth. I can almost feel the near-equal (but unchallenged) passion and I try to appreciate the words for all its worth.
This is ‘Dear Zelda, Dearest Scott’ doing its magic, no doubt. I understand why people don’t write – for lack of a good reason. For Zelda and Scott it was distance and love. In this godforsaken high-speed decade, of course people don’t write anymore. The guy who entered a war-zone probably had the Internet at his base camp, though probably at a cost. Most people are not soldiers to begin with and probably have their spouses within a 10-mile radius. So I guess all that is left is the thought, driven by what people commonly know to be, love. Not infatuation. Who calls their 3-month relationship an infatuation? I did. Although I’ve stopped at some point, but that’s another story entirely. Back to my silly desire to be written to and why the hell people do it.
Let’s just say, it’s akin to standing outside a girl’s house and strumming that impressive new guitar for her to hear and her parents to be annoyed by. A guy would rather send a Youtube video of him dedicating a love song to his sweetheart (of recent times, of course). At ‘some point’, people just cease to make the effort altogether. Maybe there is the occasional, forced declaration of their love on Valentine’s Day (which is, in my opinion, bloody cheap in terms of love) or either’s birthday. Other than that, it’s unapparent.
I may seem rather nasty and cynical when I scrutinize other people’s relationships, but only when they are truly insincere and ungrateful for what they have. There are times, I admit, when neither party requires to express their love (not infatuation) for each other in terms of money or even letters. But there will always be a hidden desire at the back of one’s mind, wishing. Wishing for my friend to return the favour. Wishing to know what having a father is like. All these wishes insignificant in reality but at the same time important as it constitutes the suppressed, irrational being inside me.
Rationally speaking, the solution would be to write to myself. Yes, that’s about right. Thank you Baby New Year for blessing me with the opportunity to reflect and reason. Have a truly jolly new year and good luck with your arduous task of proving millions of people wrong this year.
Love,
Nathalie
