i thought writing love letters would be my thing. in an age where writing letters is obsolete and decadent, when wordplay is only for dusty old books and forgotten scripture. i thought i had found my little niche in love and romance, where whomever received my little attempts at love letter or notes would be transported to an era before television and fast cars; somewhere victorian and quaint, if not in time then in space. i thought this made me unique, or at least memorable, what with the lack of standing out that i already possess.
however, this is not to be, as i find that writing love letter is very much alive and well, and the extent to which i do it is nowhere nearly as powerful or compelling as what i hope it would be. rose-tinted glasses are often the most dangerous, but i had no idea they were also the most embarrassing.
and to find out that any one person, especially one whom those love letters were intended for, had received so many letters before mine... this dilutes, grays and even abolishes any notion of romanticism attached to them. fool! but it is okay, as this is hopefully not the rule of thumb (or pen), and as soon as another fermina passes, i will be one statistical datum less uninteresting, which makes love letters (hopefully) a rarity, again. or, for the first time. maybe this is a new coming of phase, and i am already spearheading it? i am such a hipster, oh dear god, what have i done?