letters

How is it that we trust the abyss of postage to cradle our heaviest words in paper-thin packaging?

I went back to visit you. I only observed you from the outside, but you seemed different. The years must have separated us from each other. Even though you were no longer ours, there were still some of our emblems marked on you, some indications that you had been ours at some point in your existence.

Many people know Franz Kafka from his 20th century existentialist and surreal works such as “The Metamorphosis.” However, lesser known are the compilation of letters that he wrote throughout his life. Most notably, “Letters to Milena” is a collection of letters published after his death about the correspondence he had with his romantic interest, Milena Jesenská, during the time period between 1920 and 1923.

Though the raft of reasoning I'd constructed while adrift was strong enough to weather the usual mood swells and wind, I was ignorant of just how bad things could get.

Despite letters’ loss of popularity in the modern age, letter writing is still quite present and important in our literature.

I wanted to be in the thick of things again. I wanted to be able to go behind the information desk and talk to Leilah. I wanted her to ask me about Da Vinchi and Van Go and the other great men of our art tradition. She was just a college intern with so much to learn. 

Do you hate me sometimes / for worrying you.

There is an intimate, human quality to handwritten letters. They can create a material connection with others from miles away that can forever be held and looked back on. These letters also in time can serve as written records of history, tangible reminders of the past. In our movement towards digital technology, we risk the loss of one of the most treasured forms of human communication.

Letters of Curses (why God, why?). Letters sent to Churches (I guess I’ll trust in Him for Her, sigh). Letters I spied from my little eye (the first letter of her name, on your Spotify).

I smell the charred smell of flesh. The same one that flooded my nose, seared into my brain even now. The wheezing of her last breath being drawn. It sounded so hollow, like nails against a chalkboard And the fear in her voice. I can still hear those agonizing sounds of death, God that pain grasps at my heart and I feel like I may vomit.  I tell you all of this, because I beg you with every fiber of my being to believe me,  I’m innocent.  Sincerely,  -Your best friend