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Dark ink traces a path across the yellow parchment, a
waltz so slow and subtle. Words that once squirmed in the crevice
of your mind, now pour forth, free to unleash their secrets. Its
Dark ink traces a path across the yellow parchment, a waltz so slow and subtle. Words that once squirmed in the crevice of your mind, now pour forth, free to unleash their secrets. Its all a part of the wonderful art of writing a letter.
The only thing that supersedes the sublime feeling of penning down a letter, is receiving one.
Not much can compete with the indescribable wave of emotion that hits you when you run to your mail box and find a small brown package inside with your name on it. You run back to the sanctuary of your room and slowly unfurl that little scrap of paper which has a story to tell. A story that connects you to that familiar face, now but a memory blurred by time and distance.
Letter writing is now sadly an antiquated tradition, practiced only by the precious few who still connect with that old age of magic. The personal touch of words, the writing that gave you your identity, your spiraling signature at the bottom of the page and so much more all endangered and lost to the winds of time.
It was all the imperfections in the page that made it so coveted, binding together ties to last a millennium. A truant inkblot, a word spelled wrong and scratched out in embarrassment, the faint mark of a food stain and the most precious of them all, a splotched teardrop. Messages interwoven with heavy emotion and the delicate touch of life.
If only we could bring about the resurrection of this elegant artisanship, a skill that once pervaded society and brought together people separated by worlds apart