An Epistolary Mind

epistolary

adjective, i-ˈpi-stə-ləri

(of a literary work) in the form of letters.

Not just an annual gesture to write in the month of February, I often find myself wanting to send a piece of me away to someone with whom I share this planet. If it were even possible, I'd write letters to even animals.

An emotional letter, to the dog I used to feed bread everynight

An apology letter grieving with the female dog who came in our lane but lost her pups to the drunk asshole down the street who killed her baby

And maybe even a catch-up letter to Hachiko, who changed my bestfriend, asking her how she is doing.

Bewildered as I remain, of how a simple old-school letter holds so much power over everything than you notice. It can free you from the regrets, console you when you are hurting, lets you talk your heart out to someone who isn't in your life anymore.

Just the ritual of pulling out a piece of paper and pen, sitting down at a comfortable place, our spot that we call home, is enough to prepare ourselves to pour out.

Whether the receiver gets it or not, we can always write.

The receiver may no longer be in your life, either they left this world or maybe only yours. Maybe they haven't even entered in the first place.

That's the thing about this damn paper, it's hardly ever about the receiver. Whether or not they read it, your letter, your paper is always going to carry it until death does them apart.

What is stopping us then?

The very fact that if you write it down, it will become too real?

Remembering that the paper can be converted to ashes

So why throw our hearts in the fire of unspoken words.