Letters,

We've reached an age where many classical art forms are dying at the hands of more convenient technological advances.  One of the biggest tragedies is the handwritten letter.  Phones and the internet have cut through distance, taking with it longing and the reliance on memory to make it through the days apart from loved ones.  Yet even as a sucker for snail mail, I don't know if I could give up the ease of technology, my memory at times fails me, my heart pains too much to bare.

But there are somethings that telephone wires and satellite signals can't transmit, somethings that we rely on the body to communicate.  How do we then say these things when bodies are a world apart?  I'm not saying that vocals aren't capable of communicating these things.  Some most certainly are.  I, however, was not gifted with the strength and eloquence found in spoken word.  There's a wall between my thoughts and my mouth, my tongue often fumbling with the air in place of where sound should be.  Yet the words possess no structural enigma.  No trickery about the flick of the tongue or shape of the lips to form these words:

I'm sorry.

I forgive you.

I miss you.

I love you.

I'm scared.

There's safety in writing procedure.  Always the thought.  First the creating of word with ink.  Only your eyes at first know they're existence. You can read. Reread. Scratch out, tear up, start over.  All are advantages only in writing, absent in speaking.  After the perfect combination of words and sentences are formulated, the option of exposure still remains.  They can remain privately yours.  Physical representations of thoughts and feelings significant to the time of creation.  You can carry the letter around with you, as I have done with many, waiting for the right moment or when you finally have the courage to send it.

Being away for so long has showed me the beauty of written word.  Found in the letters sent to me, and the few I've had the courage to send.  Yes, the option of picking up the phone always exists, but the timing is never right.  Time in distance is the one thing technology couldn't cut.

The letters I've sent were written with time.  Always a rough draft found in my journal.  An extra precaution.  My journal now becoming an accurate account of everything I've thought, felt, missed since being here.  Every letter and word, only a few having the privilege of being shared.