Today while looking for a picture of me for today’s post, I came across a few letters that I had written to someone. I vehemently avoid visiting that mail account because there are way too many letters written to various people. I love writing letters. In fact, I love communicating through the written form. Like I send messages when calling is cheaper. I like it that way. What I have to say has a form and the recipient can actually give an answer that has been thought through.
I write very very long letters. All the thoughts, feelings and everything that I have to say is put in words accurately, organized properly and sent out to someone. There is no time limit, there are no questions interrupting the thought process. If you’ve ever been on the receiving end of a letter from me, you’ll know why exactly I prefer it this way. It is easier than talking because everything you want to say is out there. For a person to see, feel or ignore. It makes you feel honest, truthful and open. But it also makes you feel exposed.
The letters I came across were written to someone who caused me a great deal of pain. Someone who I still cannot forgive. Reading those letters made me realise how desperate, needy and negative I sounded back them. I cannot believe that it was I who wrote those words. I cannot believe that I gave someone like him that kind of importance when he deserved none. I almost always feel embarrassed when I read stuff I had written earlier. But what I felt when I read those words doesn’t even come close to all of this.
I guess this is the problem when it comes to writing. It is capable of making you feel exactly what you felt when you wrote those words back then. And sometimes with a vengeance.
I didn’t find that photograph. It was in a mail to him. I have no intention of looking for it anymore. Online or otherwise. Found this picture instead. It was taken on a happy trip to Aamby Valley. Not 10 years ago but around 6 or 7. Happy days.