CONFESSIONS OF AN EMPTY MAILBOX
I used to carry the news. In the good old days, people from all over the world used to trust me to be the carrier of both their sorrows and their joys, delivering stories and secrets from this side to that side of the ocean, from this town to the next. Now, as they open the door to my little cubicle, people merely frown. They're sure that only bills and publicity await them on the other side. Because no one writes letters anymore. Emails are more convenient, chat apps a click away, and even the good old phone call can quickly connect them to the person they are trying to reach. They've forgotten that the best things in life come to those who wait. That there's magic in the mystery and beauty in what arrives at the right time. That there can be more to writing than just stringing words together. The ritual of collecting thoughts, putting pen to paper, baring soul and mind into a white rectangle soon to be folded into an envelope with a stamp on it, both properly licked. Arriving is the way of the future, I suppose. No one wants to bother with the journey anymore.
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