A letter is communication. Communication of information and communication of feelings. Letters from my bank have little feelings (and sometimes little information too). Letters from individual people have a lot of feelings, even if they didn't intend there to be. It takes a lot of effort to write a letter. You have to think of what to say all in one go, you have to get out paper and probably handwrite it, you have to go to the post office, you have to pay for stamps, you have to wait for delivery time. Compared to digital, it's a much more laborious process, expensive in money and time. If somebody goes to that much effort, it means they must care quite a bit - not necessarily about the information they wrote, but about me as a person. It shows that someone has taken an extra step and gone out of their way to really express something to me. And there's the process on my end too, when I receive it. The anticipation of waiting, if they told me in advance they sent something. Finally seeing it in the post box, taking it indoors, the process of ripping apart the paper envelope to see what's inside. There's an excitement there that can only be felt through physical delivery. I can joyously read each word one by one with the anticipation of a tense novel, regardless of whether the information is actually moving or not. And after I'm done, I get something to hold in my hands as proof that my bond with this person is valuable and strong.

I get something to hold in my hands.

I have to hold it in my hands.

This person has communicated to me some feelings, but the feelings are not transferred physically. The feelings begin before I touch the page and they linger after I let go of it. Feelings are of course received mentally, through association and ritual of the whole process, rather than any physical properties of the paper containing the message. The letter has served its purpose. It has communicated information and feelings into my brain. It has been on a long journey and the journey has now come to an end. The letter can't do anything more for me, because its mental transfer is finished. But physically, it lingers.

This letter is in a strange situation, like all finished things are. What should I do with it? Keep it somewhere safe? Decorate it with stickers? Throw it away? Since the physical form is useless now, because it's completed its mental transfer, it's fine to throw it away, right?

But through the process of waiting for and collecting and opening and reading this letter, I feel like I've really gotten to know it. It's just the messenger for somebody else's feelings, but carrying those feelings has given it weight. In carrying their feelings, it's like the letter represents a part of this person, or is a part of this person. Throwing it away would be like throwing away a piece of somebody else.

But keeping the letter would leave me with a burden, too. The letter isn't going to disappear. I can pretend to myself that I'm keeping the letter so I can read it again in the future, but I've never done that for the information. Re-reading a letter after months or years helps me look back and recall memories of what it was like in that moment when I first read it. I'm reminded of how young I was then, what I was doing, where I was living, how I was feeling, how I felt to read it. The letter is now a reflection of the feelings of me, not of the sender. I don't need this, because I already know what I am. I already have my own feelings stored in my memory. Holding on to the letter is a waste of space, because I have to set aside a special place for it so it doesn't get crumpled, and it will live alongside any future letters I receive and store, making it harder and harder to find what I'm looking for if I really do want to read it again in the future.

Even though it's a physical object that serves no purpose any more, I still can't bear to throw away an encapsulation of somebody else's feelings. That would be sacrilege. But holding on to it makes it a lasting burden. The letter isn't going to disappear, it's going to remain there, and I will have to go back and deal with it properly at some point in the future. There's no way to know if the future will make the emotional toll of that hurt less or more.

This goes for cards as well, like birthday cards, or christmas cards, or thank you cards, or get well soon cards. They're cliche - well, the information is cliche, but the feelings are real and strong. It's more than the struggle of letters, because cards are about feelings. "Get well soon" - a wish, a dream, a hope, compassion. "Thank you" - a reflection, a connection, compassion.

What if the letter is from someone I love? How am I supposed to feel then?

What if the letter is from someone I used to love? How am I supposed to feel then?

a blank canvas has a use, to paint on. an empty crossword has a use, to solve. an unread book has a use, to be read.

a painting has filled its purpose, reached the end of its life, it can't do anything any more. a completed crossword has filled its purpose, reached the end of its life, it can't do anything any more. a read book has filled its purpose, reached the end of its life, it can't do anything any more.

both unused and used are sorrowful states, tinged with loss and regret at opportunity that used to exist but has been snuffed out through one's own action or inaction.

the only fortunate objects are those in the state of transition: being painted, being solved, being read. this is their purpose. but their time is limited. to serve their purpose, they have to lose it. ironic.

I'm so glad I'm not like that.

Today you ignore me because I'm potato. One day I'll be french fries, and you'll crave for me.

C.