Old letters: cities of lost hopes

I love letters. The smell of dried ink. Old paper clouding my mind with anticipation for I am filled with wonder and excitement of what is to be said. The poignant smell of its uniqueness. The sender, the handwriting, the message, the thought. Eroticism in subtle written sequence. I free my intentions. I don’t know what my mind will deliver in thought or what my eyes will indulge in. Infinite pages of an urban poet’s delirium. Words can confuse you, elate you or brake you. It's a compulsion. I read it all. Papers I find on the floor, papers in a crowded office, postnotes, postcards, letters, scribbles, thoughts, feeling by feeling, word by word. The art of letter writing of writing alone, of telling, of wanting. I am fond of letters. The charisma of good written lines, of amorous intentions but I too fear the quill. Words can transforms you, inspire you or escape you. I want to read them all. I want to read all humanities vanities, fears longings and joys. Between thinkers, between lovers, between friends but there is only one regret in the making. Not always people follow through with their intend. The spontaneous spill of meaning at times is never sent although it is written. What a waste of impulse, of thought. There is no gift in keeping addressed letters to one self. I would never encourage it. It is self rejection poured all over your frank desires. Desire keeps you alive. An annihilated need can make of your creative expression a frantic compulsion. Old sentiments kept in a drawer for days, for months, for years waiting for acknowledgement, for self recognition without judgement. It gets worst though. Letters written made into sudden inked paper balls, callously thrown on the floor. Tree leafs cut into hundreds of thousands of little pieces filled with dislike and remorse. Never refuse your inner lover a literary affair. It’s never a lonesome spectacle of vows and syllables. There is always a myriad of insights, a new way of addressing your feelings and the way you view the correspondent, life and the world. So much you can encounter in your quiet dusks of literary catharsis. Don’t repress it. Sooner or later a manic hand will meet the paper again a mind will be unable to stop. Some one will write and some one will read. The desire of travelling to a heart without moving. Letters are art. They never produce the same impact on the same person. Send it. Where is the joy in never sending thoughts, emotions or feelings? so intimately and carefully compressed into an envelope, transcribed with so much intend to then be putt away? None sense. Avoid a red wine’s haze sat on your desk. That is the cause of all romantic maladies. Your intimacy versus your intimacy. Absurdity on call. Sabotaging doubt. The limitation of your own mental parody. Either way send it. If you are never responded know a memory will be left. A memory that one day will become like a pretty city of lost hopes.