The art of
the long-form letter is dead.
Or, if not
dead, being kept alive only through artificial means;
Against the
express wishes of its DNR.
A friend of
mine collects pen-pals.
Still.
In this day
and age.
They
hand-write their letters and send each other chocolates from across various
oceans.
I don’t know
where to buy stamps.
I’m not
saying I couldn’t Google it, I’m just saying I’d have to.
When I was
young, I was fascinated by handwriting analysis.
You can tell
so much about a person by the way they push the tip of a pen across paper,
And I was
always so desperate to glean insight into humanity.
I prefer
typing.
It’s not
that I want to hide my nature,
It’s that I’d
rather be judged on what I deliberately state,
Rather than
on what I subconsciously imply.
There’s no
stopping that, of course, but the illusion of control is important.
I would have
sent you a letter,
If I had
your address,
Or knew
where to buy stamps,
And doing so
wouldn’t be so bizarre.
So instead, there's this.
I’ve been
dating occasionally.
It’s not
terribly enjoyable, since I don’t like people.
I can like a
person.
There are
several persons whom I enjoy very much.
People, though,
are terrible.
I wish them
well, but well enough away from me.
We talk, but
nothing is said.
There’s a
wellspring of near infinite passion within everyone.
Any passion
within them, they don’t share with me.
Everything
is flat and empty.
Sometimes I
equate it to juggling handfuls of pudding.
It’s cold,
messy, and I’m not sure what I expected to get out of it.
I feel it
important to note that I’m sympathetic.
I’m not an
easy person for most people.
To those
closest to me, I’m an open book;
Incapable of
the slightest subterfuge.
Others can
never quite seem to put their fingers on me.
Which is a shame;
I rather
like people putting their fingers on me.
No, what I
truly dislike is the duplicitousness of the dance.
I’m told
that a great time was had,
Through a
strained smile beneath hollow eyes.
I agree;
My face
mirroring theirs.
Then we
proceed to never again speak,
And I feel
vaguely unclean.
But you…
You’re a
layer of fiery charisma and pop-culture references,
Stretched
paper-thin over a skeleton of terror,
And a
shameful history with macaroni and cheese.
Just like
me.
There was a
time when I was frustrated,
Not angry or
resentful,
But
frustrated that you wouldn’t allow me one proper date to conjure up what I was
sure,
In my
hubris,
Would have
been a glorious connection.
But you said
no;
You said it
in clear, simple, respectful words.
You were
honest and open.
And let me
tell you,
Because it’s
the point of this letter,
That’s still
the best experience I’ve had with dating in a long time.
Thank you.