Dismissive About the Missive

I've been going through old love letters of how we used to be. The silly, inconsequential things you used to write to me about nothing in particular, the mundane, the everyday, the norm. But that Basildon Bond decorated with Quink used to give a form to the feelings inside as your fountain pen cried, words rambling over the page. To tear at my heart because we were apart imprisoned in our cage of distance, and the persistence of melancholia's hurting the only respite in spite of all, your banality and girlish flirting. But now we've come to the here and now to emoticons and text speak. To the short, terse text that can leave us vexed and the torment that they wreak. Our language debased to contracted words, mis-spelled and appalling grammar. Misconstrued meanings, tech speak and gleanings from Twitter, Face Book and Spammer. Anticipating the postman, the sound of the letterbox, the excitement of opening your letter. Now all we have is the e.mail wav., much quicker I grant you, but better? Call me old fashioned, a Luddite if you must, or even a pen and paper fanatic. But for all my ranting, there's something enchanting about finding old letters in the attic.