Letter me.

.from murdershewrote.

It strikes me how powerful a letter is.

I wrote about the time capsule; I wrote about how inconceivable it is to imagine yourself from four years from now, how you’ll receive this letter, hand-written, imperfect yet more precious than a mountain of gold.

I have written: e-mails, yes; blogs, this is one; in a journal, on a Microsoft Document, on a card, an assignment book, etc. Nothing quite meets up to a letter, out of the mediums. There’s impossibility in a letter, things to write. Boundaries don’t exist. Letters are deeply personal, expressly to be held by a receiver. They can be ornate. They hold the handwriting…places where the sender pressed too hard out of frustration, places where he must have erased, or switched a writing utensil. There’s miles written in between each space of a letter, and the paragraph’s construction speaks volumes in itself, and how a letter is signed; in that if the sender wrote “Yours truly”, “Sincerely”,…that capacious yet elusive “love”. Andy Dufresne wrote a letter for every week to the State for library books in his prison. He did this for six years until they finally granted his wish. Letters are powerful.

I have my opinion and mine alone in that I say that when someone receives a letter, he is overjoyed beyond receiving a text message, an e-mail. There is something antiquated in receiving a letter. Something innocent and personal…that, in this sense, only receiving mail via carrier pigeon or Pony Express can match up.