Letters are a powerful, beautiful thing. Unfortunately the art of letter writing has been washed away with the tide of text messages and face book posts. I am guilty of this myself.
However I do write letters. Many letters. But they never reach the person I write them to because I never send them out.
Lately I have been writing a lot of letters. Mostly to guys I feel have wronged me. Recently I had the misfortune of being grandly fucked by a guy. He made a royal fool of me. But I am mostly mad at myself for having let that happen to me.
There is a slight sliver of a silver lining in that, the situation may be some what resolved. But I have to behave in a certain way and play a particular game.
These enigmatic statements are possibly annoying to you, dear reader. But I can’t tell you about it right now. I have to wait a few weeks to see how it plays out. Sorry.
But I digress…
I was talking of letters.
When I write a letter, it calms me. It helps me organize my thoughts and work certain things out. In extreme cases, it helps me stay out of prison … but more realistically, it helps me from lashing out, using foul language and saying things that I may or may not regret later.
I actually did send one letter a few months ago. Did it make me feel better?
Maybe for a few moments. But not really. It drove me nuts.
I’ll tell you why.
Because he never wrote me back!
Can you say frustrating? Yes.
Can you say asshole? You bet your ass.
I was to take his no reply as the reply.
It was not an angry letter, mind you. It was a letter that professed my love for him. Okay not love but impending love or the desire to love him one day.
Without disclosing the whole letter here, I can tell you this that after telling him about my feelings, I said something like the ball is now in your court and do what you please with this information. Upon rereading the letter just now, I also said that I do hope you respond, in whatever manner.
What he chose to do with the information was nothing. Nothing at all.
I drove myself batty by checking my email inbox a 100 times a day at first. Then maybe 75 times, 50, 40… You get the picture.
I got angry and wrote another letter. This one I didn’t send of course. I am not that crazy.
The sentiment of that letter was something to the effect that, “you think so little of me that you couldn’t even spend a minute of your life writing me back.” I went on to say that even a simple, “fuck off,” would’ve been better than absolute silence.
I am not sure that was true. Plus, he would never do that.
Now that a few months have passed, I can say that I am no longer angry or hurt. Time has a way of doing that, and I thank the imaginary Gods for that every day.
I never actually confronted him and told him how shitty it was to ignore my letter entirely but I did say some watered down versions of that sentiment.
I am still in touch with him and still am very fond of him. Maybe the impending love/lust has kinda turned into a feeling of deep friendship and affection – with a smidgen of hope – haha, I can’t help myself.
Now you may think to yourself, “she was talking of the art of letter writing and singing its praises, and then she tells us this story.”
Yes, I was and still am. I don’t regret writing and sending that letter, along with all the other unsent letters.
In the letter that was sent, I put my feelings out there and the fact that they weren’t reciprocated wasn’t from a lack of him knowing. And so I never have to wonder if he truly knows how I feel.
The other letters I write are highly cathartic.
There is something about the act of writing. When the tip of the pen touches the blank piece of paper – it acts as a balm to my agitated, often hurt feelings.
So my dear readers, write/type what you are feeling and thinking. Write to anyone that is occupying that brain of yours. Write a letter to yourself if you have to, as I do often.
It can’t hurt. It can only help. I promise you.
Until I write again!
and of course Until I date again!