“Grace and peace to you from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ”
I saw a man open a letter today.
Perhaps not so surprising, except for a few additional facts (and additional facts are always interesting, aren’t they?)
You probably need some context.
I was on a train (as was the man).
The letter opened had been carried in a satchel. The sort of satchel that is either trying to be made by a Famous Designer and thus not having a Label – or the sort of satchel that is trying not to stand out amidst other Labels because the Fashion Designer shunned it. Whichever it was, this letter had all the evidence of tattered corners of a letter that had been carried around for a few hours before its secrets were shared.
The letter was handwritten.
I have no idea what the letter contained (mainly because I had to get off the train, rather than disinterest. A few more minutes and these ‘facts’ would be embellished with quotes, as I starred eagle eyed at the text before me.)
However, it left me imagining.
The Romantic in me imagined a letter from a long lost lover. A guilty confession. A declaration of love. A hopeful conclusion.
The cynic in me imagined a letter from his partner. A guilty confession. A declaration of love. An apology. A tear stained signature.
The nostalgic part of me imagined a pen friend from childhood. Shared stories of teenage exchange programmes. A stumbling fluency of French and English and German. Jokes. Laughter. And a piece of news to share.
A handwritten letter, carefully carried in a satchel and then opened in a split second between Bond Street and Green Park.
So I decide. Tonight I will write a letter.
Perhaps not so surprising, except for a few additional facts (and additional facts are always interesting, aren’t they?)
You probably need some context.
I was on a train (as was the man).
The letter opened had been carried in a satchel. The sort of satchel that is either trying to be made by a Famous Designer and thus not having a Label – or the sort of satchel that is trying not to stand out amidst other Labels because the Fashion Designer shunned it. Whichever it was, this letter had all the evidence of tattered corners of a letter that had been carried around for a few hours before its secrets were shared.
The letter was handwritten.
I have no idea what the letter contained (mainly because I had to get off the train, rather than disinterest. A few more minutes and these ‘facts’ would be embellished with quotes, as I starred eagle eyed at the text before me.)
However, it left me imagining.
The Romantic in me imagined a letter from a long lost lover. A guilty confession. A declaration of love. A hopeful conclusion.
The cynic in me imagined a letter from his partner. A guilty confession. A declaration of love. An apology. A tear stained signature.
The nostalgic part of me imagined a pen friend from childhood. Shared stories of teenage exchange programmes. A stumbling fluency of French and English and German. Jokes. Laughter. And a piece of news to share.
A handwritten letter, carefully carried in a satchel and then opened in a split second between Bond Street and Green Park.
So I decide. Tonight I will write a letter.
Perhaps from my Romantic self.
Perhaps the Cynic.
Perhaps even the nostalgic.
Whichever I choose, I wonder if you will join me?
