One thing that always gives me goosebumps of glowing thrill: handwritten letters.
Call me cheesy if you will, but imagine holding the tangible traces of a person on a piece of paper, knowing that they’ve thought of you, as much to spend time drafting and sending a little bit of themselves to you. Handwritten letters, then, are the manifestation of humanness—the sensitivity of self and otherness, the yearning for connection, the courage of an open heart, and the practice of therapy. It is also the embrace of vulnerability: isn’t it so damn scary to put yourself out there and expect reciprocity? What can be compensated for words that never resonate, thoughts never heard, care never returned? But you do it anyways, because it can even be scarier to eat away your thoughts alone. Continue reading “On handwritten letters & solitude”