Comptine D'un Autre Octobre

When was the last time you wrote a letter?
Remember letters? The primitive version of e-mails…
I love writing. Not typing. There is something so charming in a piece of paper lying in front of you. Something so inviting. Putting thoughts, feelings, anger and love, all bound into one, word by word, line by line, page by page. And even at the end, when your fingers get kinda tired from holding the pen and your writing gets ugly (because its page 13 and you still haven’t reached that stupid conclusion you started the whole thing because of), you feel good. There is one feeling that comes with the end of every letter – relief. Elaborating on your own thoughts, putting part on your personal self on a sheet and sending it to someone. To anyone.
I know I sound so ‘Thursday night’ nostalgic. But today I found a letter. A real one.
Four years ago I left the life I had loved and known so well and traveled the 1079km to the unknown. I was scared and excited, but most of all, I wanted to never leave what was most important for me – my friends. I made each of them write me a letter. A real one. A letter with whatever in it - a song lyrics, ‘screw you for leaving us!’, a recreation of a happy memory. They all did. And not because this is something that friends do anyways when you ask them. They did it, because they knew I’ll need these letters.
So true. I’ve used them to keep myself from melting in the worst of storms, to stay safe in my own wondering mind and to pursue my id that time and space can never bound a smile. Can an e-mail give you all that?
I’m old school. I’m even retro. But if I could, I would probably choose to handwrite this blog. Word by word, line by line, page by page. Just because I want you to have a piece of my sunshine. And because I’m so much better of a writer when I hold a pen…

P.S.
"This must be Thursday," said Arthur to himself, sinking low over his beer, "I never could get the hang of Thursdays."
Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, Douglas Adams