We've gotten a break in the weather here. I turned on my air conditioner on Friday because it was muggy, but turned it off Saturday evening when the temperature started to cool. Just a couple minutes ago, it started to rain, and standing out on my balcony, I notice there's a slight chill to the air. Lovely. I've got nothing to complain about.
I spent tonight not making dinner, but writing my brother a letter. No one writes letters it seems, anymore. It's like e-mail, phonecalls, or nothing -- and in my case, it's often nothing.
I am a fan of the letter, though. When all one gets in their mail is bill after bill, stupid pamphlet after flyer, isn't it refreshing to get something personal, handwritten, and pretty? The only people in my world who share this sentiment are my grandmother and my sweet beautiful artist friend Stacey, who sends me brightly coloured letters written on tissue or giftwrap or tree bark.
I love letters. I love love letters even more. I love pens and paper and collect all the cute kitchy stationery sold here. And stickers. My letters are always written in pretty ink and embellished with shiny bright stickers. I'm very pre-teen like that.
No one writes back with any regularity. Even Stacey and my grandmother take their sweet time with replies, and I get letters from Stacey that span two or three months, she picks it up and puts it down.
Still, I'll write. Some might think it's the same as an e-mail. One's thoughts translated to words on a screen, but I think it's so much more personal when I write, with my hand, what I feel.
Plus, I paid almost 2 bucks Canadian to send it, if that doesn't say love, I don't know what does!
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