I write about my life and life itself seen through my eyes for who can write through the experiences of others if not their own?

Friday, April 10, 2009

On A Different Note

I like to write. I bet you didn’t know that. I mean, I am that mushy romantic person so I like to write notes. I don’t like E-Cards. Jackie Lawson may be very creative but her cards don’t do it for me. I don’t like to receive them and I never send them. There is nothing like that hand written card or hand typed e-mail I can send.

My favorite Hallmark cards are the ones that are blank with all that space for me to pour my heart out. Tell that person be it a friend, BFF or the love of my life, how I really really feel about them. And I mean, how I really feel. I write cryptic messages that I assume that person and only that person understands, our own little thing, if you will. I’m guessing, at times the crypticness of it goes undeciphered, I’ll never know. All my card and letter recipients have been way too polite to say, “What the heck are you talking about, woman?

I have written many notes to many people and heart wrenching ones to those few who lived in my heart longer than they did in the relationship. Cute little books that I filled with our pictures and our messages. I wrote emails, letters, notes, pouring my broken heart out. Sometimes and most times with tears covering my face, my breath short and shallow, my hands shaking as I wrote the words. I’m sure that person got tired of my melodramatic messages. There was no need for more, we had said it all, I had said it all. The other person said it best when they said nothing at all; in other words, by saying nothing, enough was said (get it?).

Or maybe they just didn’t care.

But I did. I cared enough to write and write and write. And never received a reply. Or at least not one that pacified a little bit that wretchedness I felt. Oh, those are the notes I still remember more than the person who received them ever did. Such is life!

I keep the notes I receive. I am not the most organized person so I file them in my glove compartment, my night table, my gym bag, inside a book and of course, they pop up, or I rediscover them at the most inopportune times and some of them, still put me in a zone even after all these years. Others bring a smile to my face.

So I write. Sometimes for a reason and most times for no reason. “The heart has reasons that reason knows naught of”. I write simply because I can, because it is I.